


The Parselmouth of Gryffindor

by AristidusTwain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Good!Clueless!Fudge, Loophole Abuse, No Bashing, no major deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AristidusTwain/pseuds/AristidusTwain
Summary: Hermione Granger was born a Parselmouth. As a result, she arrives at Hogwarts with less trust in authority (after all, muggle science somehow ignored snake sentience for centuries), and a mission to prove snakes are people too. And Goblins. And Acromantulas. And Portraits. And… oh Merlin. Dumbledore isn't prepared for this, the Wizarding World isn't prepared for this, and Voldemort is *especially* not prepared for this.Ongoing seven-years-long story, light-hearted fun but not as cracky as it sounds. Please review!





	1. Chapter I: The Muggleborn Parselmouth

Hermione Granger could talk to snakes. That was the one oddity to this bushy-haired eleven-year-old bookworm, born of perfectly ordinary dentists in perfectly ordinary London Town. Ever since she’d discovered this ability, it had been her greatest secret pride. What other children (to an extent) and the grown-ups respected her for was her intelligence and her academic memory, and certainly, she was proud of those, too — but there were many other precocious students in the world, whereas talking to snake was special. Hermione had looked in every library she was allowed to go, and there were no records of anyone ever speaking to a snake at all. In fact, the thicker books on snake biology said snakes were actually quite deaf. This had made the snake she’d told giggle like mad — or whatever the snake equivalent for giggling was.

At any rate, Daniel and Sally Granger knew about this, and, while extremely confused, loved their daughter no less for it. And a few months before their daughter’s eleventh birthday, they received the first strange visit of many to come.

It was a strange woman wearing an out-of-date red dress. Hermione answered the door, as she always did when her parents were farther away from the entryway than she was:

“Yes, ma’am?” she asked in her still somewhat squeaky voice.

“Ah, you must be Miss Hermione Granger.” said the woman, sounding mildly pleased over her Scottish accent. “I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, and there is something of importance I must discuss with your parents.”

“Oh, is it about your teeth?” asked Hermione. “They look fine to me. And where did you find this dress? What are you a professor of? Why…”

“Dear!” said Sally Granger’s voice behind her, cutting her off. “We talked about this. Curiosity is a fine quality in a young girl, but you shouldn’t just swarm strangers with questions.”

“Madam, I do apologize for my daughter’s outburst”, said Sally’s husband, ever the formal practician. “I am Doctor Daniel Granger. What is your business?”

“As it happens, Dr Granger”, said McGonagall, “it concerns young Hermione herself. Let me get to the point… you must have noticed… peculiar events happening around her.”

“Oh, ma’am, did we ever!” said Hermione before her parents could silence her. Powerless, they nodded.

“Very good, very good!” said McGonagall. “I see you have not taken issue with… Oh, of course you would not. What are a few flickering light and broken objects… The other muggles do fuss over the smallest things, all things considered.”

“Lights? Objects?” asked Mr Granger, who was growing more and more confused.

“Oh…” said a disappointed Hermione. “I thought you were talking about my ability to talk to snakes… Of course you wouldn’t know. Just my luck.”

Professor McGonagall’s demeanor shifted rather remarkably at that.

“Talking to snakes?! Indeed?” she said with obvious interest and surprise.

“Oh, hm, yes, we…” stammered Mrs Granger, not knowing what to say. Though they privately believed their daughter, Daniel and Sally had elected not to mention this… bizarreness… outside of the family circle, at least until Hermione was of age. No need to make her a media freak before she even turned fourteen.

“Don’t worry, Dr Granger… Par-- talking to snakes is also considered a sign of what I am talking about… though quite an unusual one. Simply put, your daughter Hermione… is a witch.”

  
Through the flood of questions that followed, it surfaced that Professor McGonagall was the Deputy Headmistress of the British Isles’ only school of Magic; that Hermione could study in that school if she so wished, for free (which had Daniel beaming instantly); that Magic had nothing to do with demonic summonings of any sort, and was an inherent and morally neutral talent; that there was a whole secret world of wizards out there; and that any further questions could be answered by the books Hermione would soon be purchasing in London’s wizarding district under the Professor’s own guidance.

* * *

McGonagall led the young witch to the ‘Leaky Cauldron’ the very next day. Her parents would have loved to come, of course, but they had some clients scheduled to come that day. They reasoned there would always be time to discover the new world and magic, whereas there was money to be made today. To be precise, that had been Daniel Granger’s reasoning.

“Why is the entrance to Diagon Alley disguised as a pub?” Hermione asked as they walked through the crowded establishment. “Is it really a pub, or just a disguise? Does it belong to the Ministry of Magic? If not, does the Ministry pay the actual owner for the use they make of --”

“Miss Granger! Calm yourself!” tampered McGonagall. “I reiterate that all of your questions will be answered either at Hogwarts itself, or in the numerous books you will no doubt be buying today.”

“Oh yes!” said Hermione eagerly. “Will we soon get to the bookshop, Professor?”

“Uhm… As you will no doubt spend the longest time there, I would advise you to save the best for last, so to speak. Here, let us buy some proper wizarding robes for you!” said McGonagall, pointing to Madam Malkin’s with evident relief and ushering the girl in before Hermione could even ask about what she meant, exactly, by ‘robes’, ‘wizarding’ and ‘proper’.

There, she found herself measured by a still, silent woman and eventually offered several sizes of a set of black robes and pointy hat. She payed quite a few pounds for the clothes, but Madam Malkin assured her in a quiet voice that the robes had several enchantments on them to justify the price.

Next stop, McGonagall said, was Gringotts Bank, where she could exchange her pounds for wizarding money, as only Madam Malkin’s accepted Muggle coin.

Oh, really? Wizards had their own currency? What was it called? What was its exchange rate? Was it the same for wizards in other countries? Were there wizards in other countries?

Hermione’s economical questions were however soon drowned out when she came across the bank-tellers.

“Oh my God. They’re not human!” she squeaked in surprise. “You didn’t tell me there were other species in the wizarding world… Oh dear oh dear, what are they, exactly? Do they speak English?”

Somewhat amused, Professor McGonagall answered:

“They are Goblins, Miss Granger. They do have their own nation and language, but of course the bank-tellers in Gringotts are fluent, or nearly so, in most European languages and some besides.”

Hermione gasped but then regained her decorum and strode to a free desk. She bowed briefly.

“Excuse me, sir?” she asked as politely as she could manage.

The goblin — an old, withered creature with yellowed teeth and claws, wearing silver-branched spectacles — leaned towards the young girl.

“Yes…?” he acquiesced.

“I’m sorry, sir, but my name is Hermione Granger.” (She bowed again.) “I’m a muggleborn and I would like to exchange two hundred pounds’ worth into galleons, please.” (Another bow.)

Staring intently at her, the old goblin extended a clawed, skeletal hand in which she placed the bank notes. Almost immediately, he gave her a small bag of heavy wizarding coins in return.

“Thank you very much — sir.” said Hermione, bowing again.

A few months earlier, a rude boy in her class had joked she ‘probably didn’t know any fairy tales’, and, taking the insult very seriously, she’d read up all she could on fairies. The point was that many books said goblins were a type of fae, and all the books agreed it was best to always be polite when dealing with the fae.

While she trotted off to meet a stunned McGonagall, the old goblin whispered in Gobbledegook to his colleague sitting next to him:

[That witch is barmy. Does she think I’m a hippogriff or something?]

* * *

Together, Hermione and her Professor bought a cauldron and assorted instruments, parchments and quills, and a telescope — none of which was particularly interesting. Afterwards, she was finally allowed into Flourish and Blotts, the magical bookshop, where she bought nearly everything she could on magic, goblins, and wizarding society. She looked all she could but did not find anything about snakes — from Mr Blotts’ reaction when she asked about it, it sounded like wizards weren’t on the best terms with snakes, for some reason.

McGonagall, Hermione decided, had to be a very good witch, as she managed to create a self-powered wagon for transporting her purchases. Yes, she was definitely looking forward to having that woman as her teacher.

Then, she was asked to go to a faded boutique called Ollivanders to buy ‘the most essential piece of equipment’ — a wand.

“Ah… a new muggleborn, is that it, Minerva?” asked Mr Ollivander without greeting either of them, emerging from behind a shelf.

“Indeed, Garrick. May I introduce — Miss Hermione Granger. Miss Granger is an eager mind… and a Parselmouth” said McGonagall with a peculiar tone of voice.

“Is she now?” said Ollivander, his pale, already twinkling eyes becoming even brighter. “How fascinating! How very interesting indeed. I haven’t equipped a Parselmouth since… oh, since… ah, you wouldn’t remember the boy’s name, Miss Granger, but the point is it was more than fifty years ago. Now…”

With a flick of his own wand, the wandmaker sent several strange tape measurers floating about Hermione, and he began explaining:

“Now, you see, the wand chooses the witch, Miss Granger, not the other way around. It’s not always clear why, but --”

“Excuse me”, asked Hermione, “but if the wand chooses the witch, why are all these tests necessary?”

Ollivander looked like he’d accidentally swallowed a porcupine.

“Ah, uhm, this reminds me. Minerva, the choosing of the wand is a private event, especially for someone so special… if you would kindly wait outside…”

Somewhat surprised, the Professor left the shop.

“It is rare that a student should ask such a thing”, said Ollivander, his eyes twinkling. “I am no Sorting Hat, but I daresay you may do well in Ravenclaw, young parselmouth… Now, you see… there is an art in helping a witch or wizard find their first wand; if I didn’t have a rough ideas what wands to suggest, why, the choosing of the wand would take hours.”

“Then if it’s so innocent, then why did you ask Professor McGonagall to leave us alone?” asked Hermione, curious.

“Well, there is an art, it’s true, but it’s all in the feelings — the tapes are just a little bit of decorum. I’m afraid if people knew that wandlore is not nearly so scientific as I make it out to be, they wouldn’t listen to a word I say, and instead I’d have to deal with excited youngsters pouncing on the wands in my shelves. And I do so enjoy my quiet little monologues…”

Hermione, pleased to have found out something Professor McGonagall had obviously never noticed, readily agreed to keep this nice Mr Ollivander’s secret, and they moved on to finding her a wand.

“Now let me see… The mind of a Ravenclaw, the independence of a Gryffindor… and something of a Slytherin too, not to mention the Parseltongue…”

So saying, Ollivander was running his hands over the numerous wands in his possession.

“Perhaps this?” he said, holding out a light-colored wand of about average length, before he explained the wand’s properties with obvious pride: “Vine wood, dragon heartstring core, 10¾ inches, a powerful wand for one with hidden depths and an aptitude to learn.”

Hermione took the wand in her little hands and flicked it. A few sparks flew out, but she felt some sort of resistance — a bit like trying to run in sand. She said so.

“Hmmm. Yes. Were you not a Parselmouth, I think this would be the one, but… oh, yes, a Parselmouth after all, why not? I was keeping it for… but here, try this one.”

Ollivander had drawn a dusty-looking wand from the back of the farthest shelf.

“Holly and Phoenix Feather… Unusual combination, but a powerful wand indeed… the last Parselmouth that came to my shop bought the wand’s brother, you see, so I wouldn’t be surprised…”

“Brothers? How can wands be ‘brothers’?” asked Hermione derisively. “Wands are man-made wooden objects!” she explained further, simultaneously fighting back laughter and patronizing the old wizard.

“Miss Granger”, said the man, obviously ruffled. “Two wands are said to be ‘brothers’ when they share cores taken from the same magical creature.”

“Oh…” apologized Hermione. “I’m sorry. I’ll try it then.”

She took the wand and tried to give it a wave. Instead of sparkles, little bolts flew off the tip of the wand and it began to smoke a bit.

“Oh, dear me, no, no, not at all”, muttered Ollivander, snatching the wand away and placing it back in its native drawer, looking a tad disappointed.

Three wands later, however, she obtained a working wand, of walnut and dragon heartstring, 11 inches. It was still not a perfect match (Ollivander lamented he had no Horned Serpent horns in stock), but it was acceptable and still the best out of the set. Besides, Hermione did have other things to do today (mostly reading) and it was getting late. She decided she could buy a new wand later on if this one really didn’t do, and by then it’d be a nice plus to have the first wand as a spare.

Hermione politely waved goodbye to Ollivander and got out to find her Professor had turned into a cat and was contemplating a mouse with obvious interest.

“Oh, Professor, it would be terribly nice of you to change back”, Hermione whispered (she didn’t want to be seen talking to a cat if it turned out she was mistaken and this wasn’t Minerva McGonagall).

She was saved the embarrassment when McGonagall reluctantly let go of the rodent and shifted back into a middle-aged Scottish woman.

“So. I trust you have purchased a fitting wand?”

“Oh yes, it was very interesting. And now, could you take me home? I have quite a bit of background reading to do.”

“Fine. Now, let’s test your memory, young witch. Do you remember the way to the Leaky Cauldron from here?”

“Of course, Professor, but I really would like to go home early, and my legs are rather tired… Couldn’t we Apparate?”

Conversations with snakes had taught Hermione that there was absolutely no good in tiring yourself out when there was another, perfectly good, lazy option. Apparation — the method of magical teleportation McGonagall had mentioned in their little improvised Q&A the previous day — sounded absolutely wonderful in that regard.

“Well, I suppose I can take you in Side-Along Apparation, if you insist.” said McGonagall.

Hermione gripped McGonagall’s free hand — she had her other one holding the moving trolley — and in a cracking sound, she felt herself be twisted through space-time and then zapped back into conventional three-dimensional space in the back of the Granger family’s garden. It was all very interesting, but Hermione nonetheless hurried to the bathroom immediately under McGonagall’s covertly amused glare, the enchanted trolley full of books still trailing behind her obediently.

* * *

After two months spent frantically reading up on magic and on wizarding society, Hermione was dropped off at King’s Cross Station by Daniel and Sally Granger. She quickly climbed into the Express, McGonagall’s surprisingly resilient enchanted trolley (now loaded with her trunk rather than her books, though most of said books were of course contained in the trunk) on her heels, and found herself a free, comfy compartment about midway through the train.

As she set to work, skimming through Hogwarts, A History for the fourth time — it did seem the most relevant volume aside from her course-books proper — she only barely noticed the train start moving.

A little while later, a shy-looking boy peeked in.

“I’m sorry, my name’s Neville and I lost my toad… Have you seen him?”

“No, I’m afraid not. What sort of toad is it?” she asked him back, her voice as bossy and practical as her father’s.

“I don’t know… About this big?” answered Neville, making vague, unhelpful gestures with his stubby little hands.

“I think we could use a Summoning Spell then. Here”, she said, correcting his grip on his wand, “the incantation is Accio. Ah-kee-oh, you see? And you swish your wand like this. Oh, and we’d better do it in the corridor.”

Neville was dragged into the corridor and, under Hermione’s firm stare (which rather reminded him of his gran’s, scarily enough), he was forced to try out the spell. The slight whistle of a spell being cast was heard, but a few sparks flew off the tip of Neville’s wand, just like what Hermione had seen on some of the mismatched wand she’d tried at Ollivanders. No toad appeared, either.

“Hmm. I’ll try it”, said Hermione confidently, inwardly upset that her idea hadn’t worked. “Accio Neville’s toad!”

This time, all signs pointed to the spell having been accurately cast, but again nothing happened.

“Well, I suppose he’s out of range, or restrained. We’ll just have to go through the whole train” Hermione said, again covering up her frustration.

The first compartment they tried had green leather-covered seats and was inhabited by three rude boys. Their leader was a pale, blonde-haired little wizard with a pointed chin and a sour expression. He’d asked for her last name before she’d even finished her question, and, after she’d refused, consequently refused to acknowledge her presence any further.

Others were more polite, but not particularly more helpful for it. In the end they got to the very last compartment in the whole train, which housed two boys — one of whom bore a lightning scar on his forehead.

“I’m sorry, but have you seen a toad? Neville here has lost one, and we suspect it may be crouching somewhere in a compartment.”

“No, sorry”, said the other boy, a thin red-head whom Hermione thought looked rather cute. “Neville already came by earlier.”

Hermione glared at Neville, who helplessly shrugged. Nothing needed to be said, his look clearly conveyed: I did try to tell you, but you just stepped right past me and opened the door, because you’re bossy and overconfident. At least, that’s how Hermione interpreted it. To escape the uncomfortable realization that she’d made a mistake yet again, the witch latched onto the first conversation topic she found. The boys had their magic wands in and, the red-head pointing his in the direction of a shabby-looking rat on his lap.

“Oh, are you doing magic?” she babbled. “I’ve only tried a few spells for the moment — I did have so many things to do — read and learn — I know all of my course-books by heart of course, the important parts anyway, I hope it will be enough —”

At the stares she received from the three other children, Hermione finally realized that she’d slipped again.

“Oh. Hm.” she finished awkwardly. “So my name is Hermione Granger. What are yours?”

“I’m Ron Weasley,” said the read-head. “And that’s Harry.”

“Harry Potter”, Harry completed.

“Oh! I did think it was you, but it would have been terribly rude to ask, wouldn’t it? Would you have minded? Do…”

“Oh, no it’s okay”, Harry interrupted, trying to stop Hermione before she went off again and choked to death because she forgot to take a breath.

“Ah, uh, alright. …What spell were you trying?”

“A charm to turn Scabbers’ fur yellow. It doesn’t really work though.”

“Oh, a color-changing charm? That’s rather advanced, you know. You don’t have to feel bad if it doesn’t work. In fact, I’d rather say it was clever of you to try. It’s always good to test one’s limits, that’s what my mother always says. Not about magic, of course — she’s not a witch, you know, nobody is in my family, Professor McGonagall’s visit was ever such a surprise…”

And so the conversation went on throughout the trip, going from babble to babble and topic to topic. Ron and Harry appeared to think she was a bit weird, but Hermione was used to it, and the longer they were together, the more the boys began to see her as the right, endearing kind of weird, which was about as good as a know-it-all who spoke to snakes could hope for, in Hermione’s opinion. Not that she’d mentioned that particular talent to her new friends yet, but then, she had just met them today. It could wait.


	2. Chapter II: The School of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein pranks are played, a gaudy turban is seen, and Hermione makes a friend.

Harry and Ron kept a tight watch on Hermione to keep her from bursting with more questions as they passed through the unnaturally-still lake under the guidance of the gigantic Keeper of the Keys, Rubeus Hagrid. They entered the Great Hall and the boys began marveling at the ‘open ceiling’ before she reminded them that it was just a spell (honestly!). 

A group of misty, pale people flew down to look at the new arrivals. While many students shrieked and quaked in fear, Hermione exclaimed with a wide smile:

“Ghosts!”

She did intend to see some as soon as possible, ever since she’d read about them, but she hadn’t dared hope to see such an assortment of spooks on her very first day. Hogwarts really was wonderful. She saw, however, that Harry and Ron weren’t reacting so well to the attention of the obviously well-meaning ghost of a rotund monk, whom Hermione guessed must the ‘Fat Friar’ mentioned in the official Hogwarts history book.

“Oh, honestly, boys. Ghosts couldn’t touch a hair on your head if they wanted to.”

The Fat Friar turned his big-cheeked face towards her and said:

“I appreciate the help, young witch, it’s a shame really that nobody ever truly listens to me at first. But while you’re mostly in the right, I wouldn’t say all of us are — harmless, exactly.”

So saying, the Friar shot a heavy look at the ghost of a gaunt, chained man whose jacket was soaked in blood. Hermione was less sensitive about blood than most children (from having talked to so many snakes who considered it a delicacy), but just the look, no, the snarl on the bloody man’s face was enough to send a chill down her spine. Fortunately, McGonagall shooed away the specters before Ron and Harry could scream, and she began explaining the Sorting Hat to them, just before the Hat itself completed the story — in song. In awful, awful song.

The Sorting went alphabetically and so it wasn’t a long wait before Hermione’s turn came. She was very interested in the Hat (wizards could create artificial minds?) on top of her curiosity about her House, and she eagerly jammed the Hat on her head to see what would happen.

“Ah! Oh! Hello! Or should I say — { _Hello?_ }” said a voice inside her head.

{ _You speak Parseltongue?_ } asked Hermione in surprise — too surprised to stop and consider how she’d spontaneously thought her answer at the Hat instead of saying it aloud.

{ _Of course I do, miss Granger. Each Founder copied part of their mind into the enchantments that became me, and surely you have read that Salazar Slytherin was a Speaker? Yes, I see you have._ }

{ _Oh, I see._ } answered the girl. { _That’s very interesting, Mr Hat._ }

“Oh, just ‘Hat’ will do”, said the Hat, switching back to English. “Well now… where to put you?… Not in Hufflepuff, that’s for sure — of course, is this were a hundred years ago, I’d put you in Slytherin, but being a muggleborn in the Dungeons these days is, well, hazardous. Hmm. A brilliant academic mind, of course, Ravenclaw is an obvious solution… but you have a good and brave heart, too! What an interesting case you are, Miss Granger, how very interesting indeed…”

“I’m sorry,” asked Hermione, doing her best to render a chuckle in thought, “but are you friends with Mr Ollivander?”

“I assume you mean Garrick Ollivander? No, I haven’t spoken to that boy since I Sorted him… I did get along rather well with his great-great-great-uncle Roderick, however.”

“Oh. Alright.” said Hermione. Eager to diver the Hat’s attention from why she’d asked the question (on second thought, she realized the poor thing might get offended, even though she didn’t mean any harm by it really), she asked: “So… where will you sort me?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, you’re right, Sorting… I do so miss conversation… the Headmaster always has so much to do, and so few students really talk to me… did you know it’s been 87 years since someone began their conversation with me with ‘Good morning, how are you?’ Ah, young people these days — and believe me, I would know…”

“Hat. Sorting.”

“Yes, yes, coming, coming… well, it’s a hard pick, but I think I’ll go ahead and wish you the best of time in — GRYFFINDOR!”

A jolly Hermione Granger walked to her newly-picked House Table under polite applause and the approving looks of her two new friends. She noticed the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall’s eyes following her with acute attention all the way to her seat, which she attributed to her Parselmouth abilities, which could understandably have made them expect her to go to Slytherin.

As the Sorting went on, Harry and Ron joined her in Gryffindor, and so did Neville, whom the newly-formed Trio shamefully realized they had somehow ignored for the end of the way on the Express, caught up in their own conversation. (On the plus side, he seemed to have recovered his toad while they weren’t looking.) They made up for their mistake by congratulating him warmly for making it to Gryffindor despite his expectations, glaring at the few who started to snicker when the boy forgot to take off the Sorting Hat until he was halfway to his table. Hermione was especially insistent.

“Believe me,” she explained, “the Sorting Hat’s very clever, but it is such a gossip. It’s probably the Hat’s fault, not Neville’s.”

* * *

 

Hermione ended up sharing a dormitory room with a shy girl called Sally-Anne Perks. Sally-Anne was a muggle-born, but this wasn’t enough common grounds for her and Hermione to really start getting along.

The Common Room was homely and warm — but only when it wasn’t under assault from Fred and George, Ron’s identical older brothers, who were the most colossal pranksters Hermione (or Harry) had ever met. It was a wonder Ron had survived in the same house as them for eleven years, especially since they seemed so determined to drive him in particular completely round the bend.

For instance, in the very first week, Ron had woken up with green and silver fingernails, the very day after he’d vocally expressed his distaste for all things Slytherin. Hermione thought it was especially hypocritical of the Twins when they themselves didn’t seem to like Slytherins very much, either. She managed to cancel the color-changing charms with a spell she’d read ahead on, Finite Incantatem. For some reason, Ron glared icily at the twins but insisted not to report them to the prefect, Percy. Something to do with all four of them being siblings, she guessed.

The next day, Fred and George’s noses were flashing pink, purple and green intermittently, while their hair had turned curly and yellow. Ron burst out laughing as soon as he saw them frantically casting every counter-spell they knew, to no avail.

“What happened to them?” asked Hermione.

“Eh, they probably botched a spell working on their latest project”, Ron suggested with a faint smile. “It happens.”

After exchanging a quick glance, the Twins nodded:

“Yup, definitely that.”

“One must admit their mistakes, after all.”

“My thoughts exactly, brother mine.”

“Indeed. Now we’ll laugh at the idea that if not for a little miscalculation, you’d have been the one flashing rainbow, Ron.”

“So when you think about it, Ronniekins, the joke is really on you!”

The Twins then proceeded to perform the most abominable ‘laugh’ imaginable, each saying ‘Hah’ in turns, slowly, gratingly. After that, they retreated to the Great Hall to have breakfast (and hopefully find an older student to dispel the enchantments for them).

“Alright”, said Hermione in her bossiest voice. “Seamus, you’re Ron’s dorm-mate. Did he get up tonight? Because the Twins really aren’t good liars.”

“Nope!” said Seamus. “You’re right o’course, it’s clear the Twins were pranked and they don’t want to admit it. But it can’t a’been Ron.”

“Oh. Never mind,” Hermione thanked him, internally annoyed she’d missed her guess.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, lessons had begun as well, and from the first week Hermione decided she would really be slacking off is she didn’t make top of the class by the end of the year. Of course, Professor Binns wasn’t too bright and Professor Snape obviously thought teaching kids worked like training attack dogs, but compared to how much she’d read ahead the curriculum itself was laughably easy.

Perhaps the oddest class was Defence Agains the Dark Arts, taught by a stuttering young man called Professor Quirinus Quirrell. He wore a ridiculous turban that doubled the size of his head. Harry got visibly sick just looking at the thing, and Hermione had to admit it was rather gaudy, but the worst thing about him was how badly he taught. His stutter was so bad that by the time he finished the first sentence about some monster or dark curse, so much time had passed that he moved on to the next one without any further explanations. To boot, their great defender against the Dark Side was an absolute coward, who squeaked like a mouse at the mere idea of a Red Cap and nearly fainted when a Slytherin mentioned something called the Cruciatus Curse. Considering how even normal wizards seemed to react to the name of the Dark Lord Voldemort, Hermione was thankful Harry was too busy pretending to be sick from the ugly turban to start ranting about using that name (as he was surprisingly prone to do).

Three weeks in, Ron, escorted by Harry (still mock-sick from the gaudy turban), told Hermione after class:

“We really need to speak to McGonagall about this!”

Hermione nodded vigorously. She could get by on the course books alone, but Quirrell was grossly incompetent.

* * *

 

After a brief conversation, McGonagall assured Hermione that Quirrell had been a brilliant student and that he was still recovering from a traumatic encounter with a man-eating Hag in Albania. She expected he would get better and better over time.

Hermione waited one more month, but by the time of the Halloween Feast, Quirrell was still blabbering incoherently rather than following any sort of lesson plan. Harry, as annoyed as he was, had begun claiming that the turban was not just sickening — it was a dark artifact that messed with Quirrell’s brain and was obviously trying to possess him too, through his scar, you see?

While Quirrell remained the same appalling wreck, the prank war between Fred and George and the still untraceable Ron had only gotten funnier. Ron had found himself sprouting pink feathers at dinner, followed by Fred and George waking up with large rat-like tails, knotted together for good measure. In retaliation, the Twins had somehow forwarder their brother’s Quidditch magazine subscription to the notoriously Quidditch-hating Professor Snape, to which Ron had answered by arranging for the Twins to receive detention with Snape for a week: their cauldron had spontaneously blown up in their face in the next Potions Class, and Ron’s satisfied smirk left no doubt he was to blame — never mind that he was nowhere near the Dungeons at the time.

Meanwhile, they’d finally begun actual spell-casting in Charms Class and Ron, under Hermione’s advice, had managed to levitate his feather on the first try. A beaming Professor Flitwick suggested the three friends go and help Neville, who was having trouble casting the spell at all. It was obvious his lack of confidence translated into an inability to concentrate properly on wanting his feather to fly, a situation made much worse by his disobedient, rebellious wand.

The Halloween Feast took a turn fro the weird when Professor Quirrell, surprisingly alert, warned the Hall that there was a troll in the dungeons before falling in a heap on the hard stone floor. Dumbledore ordered the students to go back to their common rooms. Professor Snape complained that the Slytherin Common Room was, in fact, in the dungeons, and he and his student body stayed in the Great Hall instead.

Unnoticed amongst the Slytherin crowd, Hermione, Ron and Harry were lagging behind (Hermione had mockingly suggested that Quirrell’s turban had sneaked the troll in on purpose and Harry was arguing that it was probably Professor Snape instead) when a massive humanoid in a pink tutu was ejected from the stairway to the dungeons in a cacophony of fireworks, soon followed by a diminutive ghost in a jester’s outfit who was giggling madly.

“Ooh, such fun!” the spook was giggling. “Tommy always gives Peeves such nice toys to play with! Heeheehee!’”

Peeves was kicking the troll about, dumping buckets on its dumb little head, making flowers grow on its club, and a thousand other vexations. Once the initial surprise had worn out, Dumbledore cast a strong stunning spell at the grunting beast, backed up by Snape. Once the troll was down, Dumbledore extended a hand for Peeves to shake and told him:

“Peeves the Poltergeist,” he said dramatically, “you have proven your usefulness to the School once and for all and demonstrated that keeping a sense of humor in grave circumstances can be vital. For this, on behalf of Hogwarts, I thank you.”

Rather than shake the offered hand, Peeves tugged on Dumbledore’s beard as if ringing a doorbell before flying away with a crazy cackle.

Hermione looked at Ron and Harry.

“Okay, can I ask a question this time?”

* * *

Soon, the students were called back to the Hall. Dumbledore informed them that the Troll (whose limp body had been dragged into the Forbidden Forest by Hagrid) had been ‘dealt with’, which the trio of Gryffindors, Snape and the Slytherins all agreed to snicker at as the understatement of the century.

Quirrell looked a bit disappointed with himself when he came to and realized everybody was back in the Hall eating merrily. Hermione suggested it as evidence that the Turban was behind it all, though they later rationalized that Quirrell was probably ashamed of having fainted and thus played no role in defeating the Troll, which would arguably have been his duty as the Defence Professor.

* * *

 

Harry had ended up the Seeker of the Gryffindor team for disobeying a teacher. Hermione thought that was a very fitting punishment, but Harry didn’t seem to mind at all, and Ron and the Twins all agreed that it was ‘bloody brilliant’. What was so brilliant about precariously hanging onto a floating stick of wood high in the air, while being constantly forced to reach out to catch a fluttering bird-thing and under attack by semi-sentient balls intent on bludgeoning him, was beyond her (though the ‘bloody’ part she could certainly agree on). Thanks to Harry’s quick instincts and (to be honest) incredible luck, the first Quidditch Match had been a triumph for Gryffindor House (if you cared for that sort of thing; Hermione agreed with snakes on the facts that you were better firmly rooted on the hard ground, and that there was little sense in trying to catch things that were inedible).

This winning streak had gone on until November, when Harry’s broom went mad halfway through the match. Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell were both staring intently in his direction, which could have indicated either of them was casting a spell, but at the same time who wouldn’t stare at one of their students in mortal peril twenty feet in the air?

While Ron and Hermione were paralyzed by fear and indecision, Dumbledore leaped off his seat and conjured a large mattress for Harry to land on when he finally lost his grip. Hermione thought she heard bark a very rude curse (of the muggle variety, that is), but then she saw the stuttering buffoon had simply fallen backwards off his chair.

Harry was alright (though his broom escaped through the air, never to be seen again) and the match stopped there, to the Slytherin crowd’s cheering (as this was the closest they’d ever come to winning that year).

* * *

After some inner debate, Hermione decided to spend her Christmas holidays at Hogwarts. The snake-like part of her did not want to leave such a comfy nest, and the more reasonable side of the argument was that there was much to explore in the Castle, and that she’d feel bad for leaving Harry alone. (Ron had initially offered to stay with him, but eventually opted to follow the Twins back to their home to continue the prank war there. Harry couldn’t argue, especially after Fred and George made his morning pumpkin juice sprout eyeballs and a mouth, for his connection to Ron.)

On Christmas Day, her parents sent her some presents in a muggle package along with a long letter (half of which was straightforward, clinical and typewritten, the work of Daniel, and the other slightly looser, more emotional, and handwritten — the writing of Sally). The package had come delivered by a bulky snowy owl (twice bigger than Harry’s pet Hedwig) whose snow-covered feathers were so thick and fluffy it was hard to recognize him as an owl in the first place, from a certain distance. The owl proudly wore a tin ‘Muggle Relations Office’ badge on its collar, and Hermione guessed that Office was in charge of forwarding muggle mail to Hogwarts. She’d have to tell her parents to pick a sturdier package next time, however — cardboard wasn’t made to be carried through hail and snow, and the presents inside (books, naturally, plus a rather nice skirt and a packet of sugar-free snacks) were quite damp, though spells could take care of it.

Harry’s presents were definitely more interesting than hers. One was a magically-knit sweater sent by the Weasley family (Ron was obviously very thoughtful), and the other, perhaps odder still, was an invisibility cloak with only a cryptic note attached to it.

“Huh. Weird. Any idea who this might be from?”

“Well”, Harry answered, “at first I thought it was Ron again — a cloak like that would explain some of his pranks, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re quite right!” Hermione said.

“Yes, but it’s not like him to be so… mysterious about it. Friends don’t have to keep that kind of secret from each other…”

Hermione looked away at that, though the next part made her feel better:

“…especially when he’d be all but admitting it by sending the cloak in the first place. Besides, the note says it used to belong to my father. If Ron had access to my father’s things, I think he would have said something by now, right? Also, the handwriting’s all wrong… though I suppose he could have gotten Percy to write it for him — but no, that makes no sense, he’d want it to be a secret…”

“What if it’s Professor Snape?” she volunteered.

Harry stared blankly.

“Think about it. He always calls you Potter, doesn’t he? The way he first looked at you — you’d swear he knew your mother or father when they were young. I think he picks on you so much because he’s always annoyed you’re not living up to how good he remembers your father was. It’d make so much sense!”

Harry kept staring for a second more and then draped the Cloak over himself before Hermione could go on about how this was obviously an erroneous reasoning on Snape’s part because his memory’d be focused on later years, and you couldn’t compare a first-year to a seventh-year, no matter how good.

“Look, Hermione, I’m going out to explore a bit, alright? I think I need some time alone.”

She’d have said something about it being against the rules, but she planned to do the very same thing (minus the Cloak) later today, so she stayed silent. What kind of stupid rule was ‘Don’t go exploring the magical castle full of wonders and secrets’, anyway?

Harry was soon back to drag her in front of a strange mirror placed in an unused classroom. Harry’s description of it (his parents were there! right there! it had to show the Afterlife, or… something!) did not match up to what she saw in it at all, and after a bit of thinking she realized the Mirror projected a picture of your deepest desire at the time of viewing. There was a twinge of guilt in her own heart when she realized Harry must have yearned for his parents’ approving presence more than ever after her insensitive comment.

After comforting Harry about the Mirror not truly being a contact to his lost parents (though in the back of her mind was the notion that magical ways to talk to dead people might be something to look into), Hermione went off exploring on her own. She didn’t really know where she wanted to go, but she knew one thing.

God she missed snakes.

That’s what she’d seen in the Mirror. She was beaming, surrounded by her parents, Ron, Harry, and a collection of friendly snakes; and all three of them were chatting away and finding out all there was to know from a nearby library. She thought she was sitting strangely close to Ron in the image, but what she focused on was the snakes.

She’d suddenly realized she hadn’t had an occasion to speak a word of Parseltongue since the Sorting. For a while at first she’d tried to locate the Sorting Hat, but Fred and George had eventually informed her it was stored in the Headmaster’s Office (right before the candy they were eating had turned into fully-grown salamanders that leaped out of their mouths, sending a round of applause in the Gryffindor Common Room in Ron’s direction). After that, between the lessons, the Weasley Prank War and incidents like the Troll, it had slipped her mind, an unconscious emptiness in the back of her mind that she hadn’t thought of until now.

In the end, after failing to find any Parselmouth portrait or ghost, she resorted to talking to herself in a mirror (specifically, that of the second floor girls’ bathrooms; Moaning Myrtle, the local ghost, had been called away to some sort of ‘young’ ghosts meeting over the holidays, so they were, for once, available and wailing-free). Staring at her reflection, she began hiss-babbling:

{ _Oh Scales I missed this. English is nice of course, I wouldn’t want to speak Parseltongue all the time, but it gets so tiring when you always have to open your mouth wide to speak…_ }

Towards the end of that sentence, the sink in front of her sank into the ground to reveal a dark opening. There was some sort of slide running down into the darkness below. Part of Hermione considered she should repay Harry his favor and show him her finding, but she remembered she still hadn’t told her friends about her ability. She had just kept putting off because the more time had passed, the harder she had feared it would be to reveal it. At any rate, not being a Gryffindor for nothing, she plunged into the unknown. (It wasn’t technically against the rules, since as far as she knew that particular tunnel wasn’t on Mr Filch’s list of out-of-bounds locations.)

She encountered another door down below and asked it to {open} in Parseltongue again, guessing that had been what triggered the first passageway. Her intuition was right and she nervously stepped through the opening. In the large cathedral-like cave on the other side, she saw the breathing form of an enormous serpent. Its eyes were closed, but it was clearly quite awake. It hissed:

{ _Who disturbs my slumber?_ }

Hermione had heard less clichéd monster greetings, but she had other things to ask about than the snake’s choice of words. Rather a lot other things.

{ _Greetings, Big Serpent. I am a human Speaker, my name is Hermione Granger._ }


	3. Chapter III: The Snake in the Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Ron makes a startling discovery, a turban is heard, and a loophole is discovered.

Not wanting Ron to be left behind, she waited the two days before school started again. On that evening, she found her two friends playing chess together in the Common Room.

“Harry! Ron!” she called. “Oh, you simply won’t believe who I met the other day!”

“Someone who talks more than you do?” Ron suggested with a grin.

Ignoring the tease, she continued:

“No, Ronald, don’t be silly. I found a secret passageway!”

“Anything to do with the Third Floor Corridor?” suggested Harry. “If you’re talking about the three-headed dog, yes, we know. Me and Ron accidentally…”

“Three headed…?” repeated Hermione. “Oh, you mean a Cerberus — wait — that’s what Professor Dumbledore is hiding there? Well, his choice of pets isn’t really our concern, I guess… though I do wonder how one would even go about buying a Cerberus in the first place.”

“Hermione,” Harry helpfully said to put her back on track, “you were going to tell us something…?”

“Oh! Yes, yes. It’s a passageway that starts in the second floor girls’ bathrooms…”

“Why would you go there?” blurted Ron. “If s… some people I know are right, that place is bloody haunted!!”

“Well, I didn’t see the ghost, but honestly, how many times will I have to tell you the ghosts of Hogwarts are extremely harmless? The point is, that the corridor leads to some sort of underground dungeon…”

“Yeah, because there are sooo many above-ground dungeons!” quipped Harry.

“…where I met this very large snake. It was very polite, and it’s so old — well, I say it, but it’s really female…”

“Wait. It was a talking snake?” Ron interrupted her.

“Well, it doesn’t speak English, if that’s what you mean, but I’m a Parselmouth you know” said the girl matter-of-factly.

Ron stood up and took a step backwards, the color draining from his face.

“A Parselmouth?!?” said the boy. “I thought you were my friend! You-you lying, secretive, Slytherin --- LIAR!”

He tried to pull Harry away with him.

“Come on, Harry! She’s not safe to be around!” he told his friend.

“Ron, it’s okay, really” Harry argued. “I can speak to snakes too, y’know.”

With a loud crunch, the red-head slumped back on his chair, utterly defeated.

“Oh, bloody hell…”

While leaving their friend to work out his prejudice in peace, the two Parselmouths began to chat:

“God!” Harry began. “I had no idea other people could speak to snakes… let alone you!… So it’s called, what, Parselmouth…ness?”

“Parseltongue, Harry. Didn’t you research it?”

“Umm, no. Researching stuff is more of your thing, isn’t it?” Harry answered naively.

After briefly rolling her eyes, Hermione changed the subject:

“Here, let’s see how you do. {Hello Harry!}”

“What?” said Harry in confusion. “We’ve been talking for a while, why do you say hello now?”

“Harry, I just spoke to you in Parseltongue. Don’t you realize? Here try to tell the difference. This is English; {this is Snake-Speak.}”

“Oh,… uh… yeah, I think I got it. Try again!”

“Banana.” Hermione enunciated. “Did I just speak English or Parseltongue?”

“English?” Harry said tentatively.

“Good! { _Pencil_.}”

“Parseltongue?…”

“Rubber.”

“English!”

“Well done!” she congratulated him before going back to Parseltongue. { _I had a bit of trouble telling English and Snake-Speak apart at first too — I think there’s some sort of Confundus Charm that comes with the Gift, so you can’t notice you’ve switched unless you really pay attention._ }

“OH, BLOODY HELL, STOP HISSING AT EACH OTHER!” screamed a desperate Ron. “It’s bloody scary, mates!!!”

Sharing a giggle, Harry and Hermione chorused:

“Oops — sorry!”

“If you want, we could teach you some Parseltongue later”, Hermione then suggested. “It’s not nearly as scary when you’re the one speaking it.”

“Well, uh…” hesitated the red-head.

Hermione guessed he was torn between his desire not to be left behind by his two best friends (and the allure of finally learning something special to make his mother proud), and his instinctive belief that Parseltongue was a dark, slimy Slytherin thing. Finally he spoke:

“Oh, what have I got to lose. Deal me in.”

* * *

“Say, Ron, I visited the big snake today. She told me she’s a {Basilisk}. That’s… I think it means a ‘basilisk’?”

“A basilisk!?!?” said Ron. “Merlin’s hat, we’ve gotta report that, Hermione! Basilisks are illegal!”

“If you say so,” said Hermione after a moment of silence.

She strode towards Prefect Percy Weasley.

“Oh, Percy? Just wanted you to know there’s a basilisk lady under the school and I’m good friends with her.”

Hermione then turned her heels on the flabbergasted prefect. When she was halfway back to the chess table, she heard the older boy screaming:

“RON, IF YOU PUT HER UP TO THIS, IT ISN’T EVEN FUNNY!!!”

She whispered to her two friends:

“There. I did my duty. Now stop being such prats and let me see your Charms homework. I’m sure there’s something I can help you with.”

* * *

 

“GEORGE! WHAT HAPPENED‽”

“It appears, brother mine, that somebody transfigured our beds into yoghurt overnight.”

* * *

 

“Hermione, you keep telling us about that chamber snake. Do you think we could actually meet it? Her?”

“Uhm… It would be suspicious for two boys to be seen entering the girls’ bathroom, wouldn’t it?”

Ron and Harry blushed and nodded meekly. But then Harry had an illumination:

“Wait. I do have an Invisibility Cloak, don’t I?”

“Oh. Right. Although… maybe we won’t need it! I have an idea, I just… I’ll see what I can do by next week, and if not we’ll go with the Cloak.”

* * *

 

“Harry, Ron, I present you… the Basilisk of Hogwarts!” Hermione said proudly.

“Uh, Hermione, there’s no snake he-”

{ _Greetings, young wizards._ }

The stunned silence that followed was broken by a triumphant Hermione, who was eager to explain all about this new miracle:

“It was her idea, you know — she can move through the plumbing. She’s right underneath us right now, if the map of the plumbing in Hogwarts: A History is up-to-date.”

More silence.

“Well, say something!” prompted Hermione. { _Harry, you go first._ }

{ _Umm, Hello, I’m Harry Potter… How do you do?_ }

{The name of Potter is not unknown to me… I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Harry Potter.}

“Uh… { _I exist! Happy, the you, see look! New!_ } hissed an uncertain Ron in broken Parseltongue.

{ _Excuse him, Great Basilisk_ }, said Hermione apologetically, still staring down at the floor. { _He’s not a natural Speaker like Harry and I, I’ve been teaching him._ }

{ _Teaching him?_ } said the Basilisk. { _A wonder I would not have thought possible, Hermione Granger. Indeed, it seems there is much my old Masters did not tell me… a muggleborn Speaker, and of great wit too — a boy wizard who was taught to Speak — no, the great Slytherin did not foresee such things._ }

{ _Wait, Slytherin?_ } asked Harry. { _As in, the Slytherin? Salazar? The Founder?_ }

{ _Why yes, Harry Potter_ }, hissed the Basilisk. { _Master Slytherin the Warlock was the one who hatched me and built this Chamber where I reside, almost a thousand years ago._ }

{ _Wow! You is the old! Really!!_ }

A flickering whisper — a snake’s way of chuckling — met Ron’s remark.

* * *

In the days that followed, the Basilisk took to invisibly following the three pupils around. The gift of being a Parselmouth extended further than the innate knowledge of the tongue and the Confundus Charm Hermione had discovered — it made the hissing clearer and louder to you than it would seem to the non-Speaker. It only made sense, of course, that the creators of the spell would have included such a thing; Hermione guessed it was to facilitate talking to the smaller, tiny-lunged sorts of adder without having to crouch down right next to them. However, she used it in a completely different way. It allowed her to talk to her new friend right through the wall even if both of them were only hiss-whispering.

Thus, that week, chatting with the Basilisk became a habit of hers whenever she had finished a practical exercise, sometimes joined by Harry and even Ron, who was picking up the language pretty quickly. One by one, she introduced her teachers to the great serpent. As it turned out, the Basilisk had last roamed the pipes fifty years earlier, and there were already some teachers then who still held their posts in 1991 — starting with ghostly Professor Cuthbert Binns, the insufferably soporific History teacher.

Professor Snape came close to catching her in the act (she supposed that, as the Head of Slytherin, it only made sense he’d know what Parseltongue sounded like) but she had silenced herself as soon as she’d noticed him walking towards her. He was obviously all ready for an icy, snarky remark about hissing instead of brewing, but his sneer hard turned to a scowl when Hermione’s potions had turned out to be absolutely perfect.

She had more trouble on Friday of that week, when she tried to chat with the Basilisk in Defence Class. Harry wasn’t taking part in that conversation, too busy clutching his forehead whenever Quirrell’s turban got near him. (Hermione thought the gag was getting old, but then anyone had their quirks.) As she began to speak with the Basilisk, she was suddenly interrupted by a voice coming from the front of the classroom:

{ _Basilisk! Is that you?_ }

She heard the Basilisk gasp and immediately reply:

{ _Yes, Master._ }

{ _What are you doing out of the Chamber!?_ }

{ _I was… merely giving myself some exercise, roaming the pipelines, Master._ }

{ _Well, you would do better to stay in the Chamber unless I call for you. It would not do for the old fool to be alerted to my presence before I secure what I seek in the Third Floor Corridor._ }

{ _Do you refer to the large dog with the three heads, Master?_ }

Hermione winced. She had been the one to tell the Basilisk about Professor Dumbledore’s Cerberus. The snake had made a blunder by mentioning it. The mysterious voice’s reply was quick:

{ _And how would you know this if you stayed in the pipes? Fool! I forbid you to take any such initiatives in the future, imbecile. For your information, the Cerberus is of no interest to me. What I want is what it is guarding. Now go!_ }

{ _I apologize, Master._ } hissed the Basilisk, and Hermione understood that it was meant for her as much as for the Master.

…Whoever he was. The voice wasn’t that of a student — even in hissing you could tell it was too raspy for that. Nor was it Quirrell himself: even as the Parseltongue voice berated the poor Basilisk, the stuttering moron had been stammering his way through a lesson on defending oneself from a Fearsome Rabbit (which Hermione was pretty sure wasn’t even a thing, for that matter).

This only left one suspect.

“Oh God.” she mouthed, gesturing to Harry. “You weren’t joking, about the turban…?”

Harry had heard her and he shook his head energetically.

* * *

 

They knew the Basilisk couldn’t visit them anymore, and so first thing in the morning on Saturday the trio of friends headed down into the Chamber to meet her, under the cover of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. They passed the wailing ghost-girl Moaning Myrtle, who (in a testament to the reliability of Harry’s cloak) did not notice a thing.

{ _Basilisk? Basilisk?_ } Harry called. Hermione had impressed it upon him that one had to warn the Basilisk of one’s presence before entering the inner sanctum, so that she may closer he eyes and not kill them or petrify them. The boys had thrown a fit upon learning Basilisks had such powers (Really, hadn’t they read Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them? Typical), but they had to follow her along anyway.

{ _I am here, young wizards and witch. You may come in, I have made myself harmless._ }

Hermione hissed at the second door to { _open_ } and they entered the monster’s inner lair.

{ _Great Basilisk_ }, Hermione began. { _I think of you as a friend, as shortly as we’ve known each other; the way that person in the Defence Class Room treated you yesterday saddens us. I’m sure the same is true of my friends, too._ }

{ _Yes, true!_ } acquiesced Ron while Harry nodded.

{ _Look, who was that voice??_ } Harry blurted out. { _Is he really your Master? What’s he trying to steal?_ }

{ _Harry,_ } chastised Hermione. { _Who’s asking too many questions now?_ }

{ _No, no, Harry Potter is right. We must act swiftly._ } said the Basilisk. { _Those questions are urgent, more so than your protests of affection to me. Although those are not unappreciated. This voice was indeed my Master — my latest Master — the Heir of Slytherin who opened my Chamber fifty years ago. His name was Tom Riddle. I do not know how he came to possess your young professor, nor what he seeks that the Headmaster holds behind the great dog. But I’m certain he is truly Tom Riddle, for when he ordered me, I felt the cursed bond placed on me by Master Slytherin, forcing me to obey his orders once again._ }

{ _A bond? ‘Forcing’ you? You can’t disobey him then, even in secret?_ } Harry asked sympathetically, thanking God the Dursleys didn’t have access to any magic like this one.

“So if I’m following this right…” said Ron in English, “if this master of hers tells her to eat us… bloody hell!”

{ _You really cannot disobey?_ } asked Hermione.

{ _Alas, no, young witch._ } said the Basilisk, bowing her head down. { _Orders are orders, so willed it my first Master… Perhaps he did not trust me enough, or perhaps he thought of me as just an animal to tame. But I truly cannot._ }

{ _But how do you know whose orders to obey? Wouldn’t any Parselmouth’s do?_ } argued Hermione, desperate.

{ _No, Hermione Granger. The bond is separate from the Gift, and passed down Salazar’s line and his alone._ }

{ _But… isn’t there a chance me or Hermione is a descendant of Slytherin, too? We could have gotten the Gift from him in the first place!_ } Harry suggested, full of hope.

{ _I… do not know_ }, said the Basilisk. { _Perhaps we may test it. Yes. Young wizard and witch, I want each of you to give me an order; I will attempt to ignore it._ }

{ _Okay_ }, said Harry. { _Turn your head to the right!_ }

The Basilisk stood still.

{ _No, you have no power over me, young Potter_ }, ruled the snake.

{ _And me?_ } tried Hermione. { _Say ‘Fearsome Rabbit’!_ }

Again the Basilisk remained silent.

{ _Oh, well. It was worth a try. So I’m not descended from Slytherin, huh?_ } asked Harry.

{ _I don’t know…_ } said Hermione. { _It’s possible, of course, but maybe the Master just cast a spell that limits the bond to him and him alone._ }

{ _I recall no such thing, Hermione Granger; but it is possible_ }, opined the Basilisk. { _Well then, it seems it is the end of the friendship we had begun, young wizards and witch…_ }

{ _Aha!_ } said Hermione, an idea having struck her. { _Perhaps not. Basilisk, I order you to come visit us through the pipes like you have done so far_.}

{ _You are out of your mind, child!_ } said the Basilisk. { _We have seen that you do not hold me in your power, unfortunately. You cannot counteract the Master’s orders._ }

{ _But I can work around them_ }, said Hermione with a sly grin. { _His order was worded: ‘I forbid you to take any such initiatives’. If I’m the one telling you to visit us, you’re not taking any initiatives, are you?_ }

{ _Oh, surely he cannot be tricked so easily… But… Wait! In Slytherin’s name, you are right, Hermione Granger! I thank you ever so much! I will see you in the next week; but now I must rest, if you pleased._ }

{ _Of course, great Basilisk. Good bye!_ } said Hermione, tip-toeing out of the room, followed by Harry and Ron who also waved goodbye to their giant, scaly friend.

* * *

 

“Alright,” said Hermione in the quiet of the Gryffindor dorm. “What could Professor Dumbledore be hiding that this Tom Riddle would want to steal?”

“Well, there is something,” Harry suggested. “When I went to Gringotts—”

“Oh, you went to Gringotts to?” gushed Hermione. “Were you polite to the Goblins?”

“Uhhh… not particularly?”

“Oh dear, you’ll never get ahead in business that way.” said Hermione with obvious concern. “I’m sure the Goblins would remember me for being polite to them.”

“I’m not trying to get ahead in — oh, never mind. The point is that there was this little object Hagrid had to take from a vault on Dumbledore’s behalf, and, I read it the newspaper, you know, the… Daily Comet… The day after that, that very vault was broken into. They never caught the thief! I bet it was Tom Riddle and Quirrell, and Dumbledore decided to move his treasure closer to him.”

“Oh, Harry, you’re a treasure. That must be right!”smiled Hermione. “But what’s the treasure then?”

“I don’t know… something magical, I guess. Maybe something to turn a turban back into a human.”

“Probably.”

“Think we should try to take the turban off of Quirrell and bring it to Professor Dumbledore, then?”

“I like how you think.”

* * *

Thus normalcy (inasmuch as talking to an immortal giant snake through the walls of a magical castle can called normalcy) resumed in the next week and onwards. The Basilisk was learning as much as the children by attending their classes, Hermione and Harry taking turns translating the lectures for her. Salazar Slytherin may have been her creator, but it became clearer and clearer to Hermione that the man had been a rubbish father. All he had taught her was that her purpose was to kill mud-bloods on his Heir’s orders, and when to safely do so; anything else she knew, she’d picked up from his rambling (as Slytherin had been prone to coming down to the Chamber and monologuing about what he thought was wrong with the world).

As a matter of fact, come march, the History curriculum required they study the Founders, and this was the perfect opportunity for Hermione to ask more about Slytherin. It took three loud calls for Binns to notice her, but it was worth it.

“Ah, yes, very good question, Miss Duncan,” said Binns with uncharacteristic interest. “Salazar Slytherin was born in Ireland of unknown, albeit pureblood parents. He is known as a Parselmouth, a talented Legilimens and a champion of pureblood ideology, as well, of course, as for having co-founded Hogwarts with Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff.”

Making a note to research what a Legilimens was later, Hermione insisted:

“Yes… I wondered, if Slytherin hated muggle-borns so, why did he allow them to study at Hogwarts?”

“Ah, yes, yes…” answered Binns, “that is the question. Well… of course, this is only myth and rumor, but legend has it… no, I really couldn’t, I’m a teacher of facts… Oh well, if you insist… It is said that the reason Slytherin left the school at the young age of seventy-six was his growing dissent with the other Founders over, precisely, the matter of the Muggle-born… and that he left a terrible weapon behind, so that his Heir, whoever he may be… funny, that, the Slytherin line was lost towards the end of the 19th century, I do not believe he has any descendants alive today… so that is Heir, as I said, yes, ah yes, his Heir… may use it to purge the school of those deemed… unworthy… in Slytherin’s view. Now this weapon, whatever it is, and most think it is a monster… this weapon would be hidden in a secret room of this very castle… known, if you’ll forgive the dramatics… the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Oh,” said Hermione over the gasps of those of her classmates who weren’t asleep. “Yes, I’d been wondering.”

While Binns returned to his previous droning lecture, forgetting all about ‘Miss Duncan’, Hermione hissed into the wall right next to her, where she knew the Basilisk was:

{I’ve just talked to Teacher Binns about you and the first Master. He does not know much, but it would appear the existence of some weapon against those of ‘impure’ blood (that would be you) hidden in a Chamber of Secrets (your chamber, I think) is known. As a legend. The sort of legend that scares everyone at night.}

{Except Malfoy}, Harry added mischievously. {I’m sure it’s a bedtime story for him.}

Ah, Malfoy… The blonde-haired nuisance whom Snape favored to ludicrous extents had became the subject of many jokes between the three friends, to his unending annoyance. Hermione had told a bit about him to the Basilisk, who had suggested eating him before Hermione scolded her for slipping back into Slytherin’s teachings (centuries-old brainwashing was hard to outgrow). Earlier in the year he’d tried to goad Harry into a midnight duel after a ridiculous stunt in flying class, but Hermione had dispelled these silly notions on the sound snakelike logic that they had other things to do at night, namely sleep. Thinking about it later that day, Hermione had realized Draco had probably had some sort of trick in mind (it wasn’t like him to play fair) and congratulated herself all over again for preventing it.

* * *

 

And every evening, Harry, Ron and Hermione discussed their battle-plan for turban-napping. They hoped they’d have it ready by the end of May. Riddle would get what he deserved from trying to rob Professor Dumbledore, hurting Harry, ordering the Basilisk around… and turning their Defence Professor into a complete doofus. Honestly, how were they supposed to get a well-rounded education?


	4. Chapter IV: The Dark Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a griffin is poked, the Third Floor Corridor is invaded, and a Dark Lord is dealt with.

Quietly, ever so quietly, an invisible duo was making its way to the Headmaster of Hogwarts’s Office, under the cover of an Invisibility Cloak. The first was Hermione Granger, twelve-year-old, Gryffindor, Parselmouth, and hatcher of the plan. The second was Harry Potter, eleven-year-old, Gryffindor, Boy Who Lived, and owner of the Cloak, who had insisted that the Cloak was his and so he deserved to go along if Hermione was going to use it. One might be surprised to see that their friend Ron hadn’t joined them on this ‘late-evening stroll’, but they’d left him looking rather distressed that his pet rat Scabbers had run off god knew where.

It didn’t take long before the two children found the distinctive Griffin Stairway that they’d been told led to the Headmaster’s Office. That stairway always appeared to manifest wherever it was convenient for those looking for it, and in this particular case they found it in an unassuming corridor on the Second Floor. Hermione whispered at the golden griffin:

“Um, could you let us in, please?”

The statue didn’t budge.

“Mr Griffin!” she insisted, slightly louder this time, still under the cover of the Invisibility Cloak. “I know I don’t have a password, but I really need to speak to the Sorting Hat!”

Harry elbowed her.

“… _We_ really need to speak to the Sorting Hat!” she corrected.

Still the bizarre gargoyle stood still.

After a cautious glance to make sure the grumpy caretaker Filch and his attack dog of a cat weren’t anywhere in sight, Harry took the initiative to pull the enchanted cloaked off of them. Hermione thought she saw the Gargoyle twitch upon seeing the two of them appear, but it still didn’t say anything.

Hermione and Harry gestured at it and did the best they could to silently communicate a sense of great urgency to it.

“It has to do with the Third Floor Corridor, alright? And a teacher!” mouthed Harry. “It’s important!”

The Griffin stubbornly refused to move.

Hermione poked it with her wand.

“ _Ack_!” yelped the golden, misshapen creature in a tinny, reverberating voice.

“Okay, you’re definitely awake. Stop ignoring us.” whispered Hermione, doing her best to sound outraged. She had dealt with this sort of situation many times before with snakes.

“ _Go away_.” muttered the Griffin, doing its best not to move its beak more than absolutely necessary, maintaining the illusion of a normal statue.

“Look,” argued Hermione, “we just want to speak to the Sorting Hat for a while. We know Professor Dumbledore is away, on business in London I think?… so we won’t bother anyone at all — it’s the Hat, you see, that we need to talk to.”

“ _It’s forbidden_.”

Hermione poked him again, straight between the eyes.

“ _Ack! Ack!_ ” yowled the metal creature, trying to shake off the stinging, ruffling its scale-like gold feathers in the process.

“She’s going to keep poking you until you let us in, you know.” said Harry, extremely amused by the whole situation.

“ _Now listen here, you brats! (Ack!) I was enchanted by Godric Gryffindor himself, you (ack!) you know! I have guarded this (Ack! Ack!) this Office, as is my (Ack!) solemn duty, for a thousand years without (ack!) failing! I will not (ack!) be bested by (ack!) a couple of (ack) arrogant (ack) --- WILL YOU STOP THAT?_ ”

“You know, you could just… dodge. Step aside. It’s not like I’m going at you particularly fast.” said Hermione with a malicious grin.

“ _But — ack! — I cant_!!! I’m supposed to stand _still_!” pleaded the Griffin in distress. “ _I shouldn’t even be talking to you in the first place!_ ”

*Poke*

“ _Ack_!”

*Poke*

“ _Ack_!”

*Poke*

“ _Ack_!”

“Couldn’t you just ask the Sorting Hat if it’s okay for us to visit?” Hermione asked the shaking gargoyle. “Tell him it’s Hermione Granger who wants to have a nice little chat with him.”

*Poke*

“… _Fine_!” barked the creature, defeated.

Slowly, with the distinct noise of metal creaking, the Golden Griffin rose from its seating position and let the moving stairs behind him carry him into the room. A few moments later, he came back down, head bowed in shame, and told them they could come in.

Brimming with contained excitement (both at their situation and at their recent victory against the obstructive gargoyle), the two children entered the Headmaster’s Office.

It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises, emitted by a number of curious silver instruments sitting on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with the sleeping portraits of old wizards and witches (whom Hermione knew, thanks to _Hogwarts: A History_ , to be the likenesses of former Headmasters and Headmistresses). There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tainted wizard's hat — the Sorting Hat. Its eye-like folds were wide with surprise and its ragged tear of a mouth was outstretched in a genial smile.

“Well! Well! Well!” commented the Hat warmly. “I didn’t expect there to be much excitement around here, what with Albus away on ‘business’… and now would you look at that! A visitor! And what a visitor… oh, better, two, I see!”

Hermione walked confidently towards the Hat, and Harry, a little more shyly, followed her, before waving hello at the old hat.

“I hope our old friend Goldie didn’t give you too much trouble!” commented the Hat in good humor.

“He did, actually, but I poked him.” said Hermione as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The Sorting Hat stared in incomprehension.

“Over and over. Until he no longer could bear to sit still, you see.”

The tear-mouth began quivering.

“It’s very effective on snakes.”

The tear split open as the Hat broke out into a hearty laugh, the likes of which he hadn’t had the pleasure to experience in centuries.

“BWA-HA! HAH-HAAH! HAHAHAHA HAH! HA! HAAAH!”

The booming laughter woke up most of the snoozing portrait-people, who scuttled closer to the canvas to see what was happening down there.

“Haaah… Hah…” died the Hat’s laugh, and even though he had no hands certainly couldn’t cry, one could almost picture him wiping a tear of mirth off his beady old eyes. “Oh, Miss Granger, you are still a beacon of mirth in a world of bores.”

Murmurs were heard from the walls as the various portrait-people took rightful offense to the Hat’s word.

“So,” it continued, “I suppose teasing Goldie wasn’t your only reason for visiting me?”

“Well, no, Mr Hat.” Harry explained. “We wanted to know how you were made, you see, and if you have any weaknesses.”

“Egads!” said the Hat in mock-surprise. “You do realize that sounds rather like a threat?”

“Uh? Oh, no, no!” protested Harry. “It’s not about you at all, I promise, sir! Only, we came across someone else like you…”

“Like me?” boasted the Hat. “Young friends, I rather doubt that. I am a unique combo of Pensieve magics, Legilimency and an ordinary but fashionable cloth hat. I was made whole-cloth… heheh, that wasn’t even on purpose, that’s a rather good one… I was made by the Founders, as you would know if you’d paid attention to my song at the Feast. As for weaknesses, I’m as weak to a Killing Curse as anybody else, but I like to think my four parents did a rather good job of warding me against most possible ways a wizard could devise to destroy a sapient piece of headwear.”

“Ah… so you were never a person, were you?” said Hermione, a bit disappointed.

“As an entity with a mind and feelings of its own,” retorted the Hat, “I believe I fit most common definitions of a ‘person’. That being said, I see what you mean, Miss Granger, and no, while I was gifted copies of the Founders’ memories, I never inhabited a body of flesh and blood.”

“Oh… And you wouldn’t know of any means by which a wizard could turn themselves into someone like you, then?”

“Well, I suppose… a true genius _might_ be able to replicate my own enchantments, but pour all of his memories into the receptacle rather than bits and pieces of four separate people’s… although the question of whether the resulting being would truly be the same as the wizard, or merely a copy, is a well-known ethical dilemma. …Well, there would be a way to split one’s… but no, that would be insane… …fine, forget that last part. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Harry answered, “we’re pretty sure Professor Quirrell’s turban is secretly controlling him and trying to steal something from Professor Dumbledore.”

“Quirrell, you say?” repeated the Hat. “Quirinus Quirrell? Oh, come now, that is preposterous. Ravenclaw, was he?… No. And Albus made him the Defence Professor, I think… Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”

“Look, the thing is, the turban is apparently called Tom Riddle, and…”

“ _Tom Riddle_?” blurted the Hat. “Him!? Oh yes, he might have… He might well have done… a turban, though? And why Quirrell?…”

“I’m sorry,” said a voice from above, “but were you discussing Tom Riddle?”

The voice, as it happened, was that of one of the Portraits — a balding old wizard with a long beard and a rather stupid look in his beady eyes.

“Yes, Professor…”

“Dippet, Armando Dippet,” the Portrait introduced himself. “It so happens that the Riddle boy studied at Hogwarts whilst I served as Headmaster; whatever became of him, then? I haven’t seen him since he applied for the Defence Professorship years ago… I was already a Portrait then, of course. He looked rather sickly at the time, too. I hope he got better.”

“Well, he’s apparently up and turned himself into a turban,” explained the Sorting Hat.

“… A turban.” repeated Dippet.

The two children nodded energetically.

“…The unpainted world is definitely not for me.” said Dippet as he turned away from the outside world and retreated deeper into his canvas. “I’ll leave that to my true self for now. He’s still alive, you know!”

“Yes”, Harry heard another nearby portrait snark, “so you have bragged about a hundred times since you were hung here.”

Ignoring the Headmasters’ bickering, Harry and Hermione prodded the Hat further:

“So you really have no idea how we might be able to take him off poor Professor Quirrell?”

“Alas, no, my young friends…” lamented the Hat. “Whether or not the basic enchantments that created the Riddling Turban are the same ones the Founders used on me, I haven’t a clue how he may have protected himself. Knowing that Riddle boy, I expect some pretty dark magic, however. I urge you to be cautious!”

“What about the Third Floor Corridor, then?” asked Harry.

“Yes? What about it?” asked the Sorting Hat, not seeing the point of the question.

“Well,” Hermione clarified, “it’s apparently where what Riddle wants is hidden.”

“Oh! Yes! Yes! I see…” the Hat nodded. “I’m sorry, I had forgotten… you mean the Philosopher’s Stone then.”

“So that’s what it was!” exclaimed Hermione, beaming.

Harry stared in confusion.

“The Philosopher’s Stone, Harry!” Hermione insisted. “Even muggles know about it, haven’t you heard? It’s an alchemical construct, also known as the _Grand-Œuvre_ , that allows for the transmutation of any metal into pure gold, and is the basis for the Elixir of Life — some sort of potion that can heal any injury or disease, including old age!”

“Oh; sure. Why didn’t I guess that?” said Harry, sarcastically reacting to Hermione’s textbook-like impromptu lecture.

“Muggles know about it, you say, Miss Granger? How interesting. Every decade something new!” said the Hat. “However, yes, your information is mostly accurate. The Stone currently in the Third-Floor Corridor is not, properly, the possession of Albus Dumbledore; it is the Stone of Nicolas Flamel, a brilliant French alchemist… He’s good friends with Albus, has been for decades… It was brought here after some thief attempted to steal it from Gringotts.”

Harry mouthed ‘I knew it!’ victoriously, and Hermione couldn’t argue.

“Apparently,” continued the Hat, “several Professors have been asked to help put protections around the Stone to stall an intruder long enough for Dumbledore to catch up to him and defeat him. Only Professors, too. (Sigh) It’s not like the thousand-year-old magical being that has the wisdom of all four Founders combined could possibly help them in any way, is it?… Ah well.”

* * *

The two children, having learned all they could, said goodbye to the Hat and made their way back to the Gryffindor quarters undisturbed. Ron had already fallen asleep and so they too went to bed, but Harry couldn’t find peace, twisting and turning in his bed. _Something_ was bothering him. With a start, he realized that Professor Dumbledore’s absence (which they had so eagerly awaited to put Operation Sorting Hat into motion) was also the perfect opportunity for Quirrell and Riddle to go after the Philosopher’s Stone.

Tip-toeing out of the boys’ dormitory, he stood at the edge of the girls’ and called in Parseltongue for Hermione to join him. She wasn’t asleep yet either, so it was thus only a matter of draping her robes over her pajamas and snatching her wand; and, shrouded in Harry’s Cloak, off they went towards the mysterious Third Floor Corridor, whose door they found slightly ajar.

Inside, they recognized the humongous black mass of the Cerberus, fast asleep, a trap-door clearly visible next to its limp right paw. Harry was about to try sneaking past the snoozing behemoth when Hermione had a better idea. She left the boy to stand guard next to the door and ran off. A minute later, she returned with a looming green silhouette in toe — the Basilisk, eyes shut, whom the muggle-born witch had ‘ordered’ to come out of the Chamber. Sneaking past the three-headed dog unnoticed was obviously impossible for her, but a fierce guardian though it may have been, the Cerberus was not suicidal; after a yip and a growl, it cowered in a corner of his room, doing its best not to anger the unspeakably dangerous serpent.

Hermione opened the trapdoor and then stepped aside.

{ _Great Basilisk?_ } she asked. { _Have a look inside, please. I know there’s no one down there, so it’s alright, but I can’t quite make things out, and your noble kind can see in the dark…_ }

{ _Clever as ever!_ } complimented the snake before putting her head through the rectangular opening. A few seconds later came the snake’s hissed report:

{ _There was a plant down there, Hermione Granger, but my Gaze caused it to shrivel and die before I could close my eyes._ }

Curious, Hermione peeked into the room below.

{ _Oh! That plant was a Devil’s Snare, Basilisk_ }, she recognized from the dry remains littering the floor. { _We’re lucky you killed it — they’re quite dangerous. But — oh dear, now, the ceiling is so high that without the plan to cushion us… how can we get down?_ }

{ _I think I know!…_ } smirked Harry after a moment.

* * *

“Weeeeeee!” went both children as they slid down the one-of-a-kind slide that was the back of Salazar Slytherin’s Basilisk.

Again they sent the Basilisk scouting ahead, and they learned that, #1, the next room contained flying keys, and, #2, flying keys were not immune to a Basilisk’s Gaze. Whether they were ‘dead’ or Petrified was hard to tell, but either way, unmoving winged keys were littering the stone floor when the young wizard and witch entered the room after the Basilisk. Judging from the next door and its oversized keyhole, it was clear one of the keys was the right one needed to progress further. This conundrum didn’t stall them for long.

“ _Accio_ Right Key!” incanted Hermione, and they passed into the next chamber without much trouble.

It was a gigantic chessboard. Hermione paled.

“Oh God…” she deduced with much anguish. “We’re supposed to play our way across! And even now Ron is fast asleep…”

“Hey! I’m not a bad chess-player either, you know!” complained Harry.

{ _Human children?_ } called the Basilisk. { _I could simply smash our way through these enchanted pieces of stone, you do realize._ }

{ _Oh… right._ } said Hermione.

A few minutes of chaos later, the enchanted chess-pieces were lying helplessly across the room on their back, some in pieces or cracked by the Basilisk’s destructive feat of strength.

{ _You may pass_ }, the snake said simply.

Harry and Hermione thanked the snake and passed through a room where a gigantic troll lay prone on the stone floor, knocked out cold. Then was a room separated from the next by a wall of fire. Vials and bottles sat nearby, as well as a parchment inscribed with a riddle (which apparently told one which bottles contained poison, nettle wine, and the actual potion needed to go through he door). While Hermione got to work solving it, the Basilisk curiously put her fireproof, scaly muzzle through the flaming gate.

She withdrew it immediately, and, in a shaking voice, told the children:

{ _Ahem… you… may want to have a look on the other side._ }

* * *

“Well, _Potter_?” sneered Professor Snape. “Would you mind explaining _how_ in Pyrrhus Ocelot’s name you and your toothy muggle-born _girlfriend_ somehow found yourself in the same room as a petrified of the Dark Lord and one of your own _teachers_?”

Harry was obviously about to lash out against the recently-arrived Snape, who was, to be fair, clearly looking for friction. Hermione, recognizing the warning signs, answered in his place:

“Well, it all began with Professor Quirrell’s turban giving Harry a headache.”

Snape raised his hand, wordlessly telling her to wait for a moment. The black-haired warlock darted into the previous room, and came back out holding the bottle of nettle vine.

“…Carry on.” he said with a defeated look.

“At first,” Hermione continued with a tale expertly weaving truth and lies, “I thought it was a joke, but then the turban spoke Parseltongue — well, I _thought_ it was the turban speaking — and we heard it talk about stealing the Philosopher’s Stone, which we guessed had to be what Professor Dumbledore was guarding here with the Cerberus, you see. And so we followed Professor Quirrell into the corridor tonight, because we knew with Professor Dumbledore missing it was a golden opportunity for Quirrell and the turban, who was called Riddle. We found most challenges already disarmed and reached this room just in time to see Professor Quirrell lose his temper and cast some curse at the Mirror. It bounced back right onto him and petrified him. Now that it was safe, I tried to take the evil Riddle turban off poor Professor Quirrell, using the Summoning Spell. As you can see, the turban turned out to be quite normal, and instead Riddle was directly possessing the back of Quirrell’s head. That was about when you burst into the room yourself.”

Hermione breathed all of three times through this entire tale, but oddly enough, Snape was the one who seemed out of breath.

“Miss Granger — Mr Potter —” he asked, his voice confused, shaking and disbelieving, not even bothering to inquire how it was that both of these absurd Gryffindors were apparently Parselmouths. “Are you really unaware of this… _Tom Riddle_ ’s true identity?”

“I… guess so?” said Harry, who really didn’t like where this was going.

“Tom Riddle… became known… as Lord Voldemort.” said Snape in a mix of fear and awe.

“Oh, good! Hagrid was right, then!” said Harry with a smile. “He _was_ still out there!”

“That is… _one_ way to put it…” hesitated Snape.

“What are you so frightened about?” asked Harry. “He’s been defeated, hasn’t he?”

Staring at the frozen, noseless scowl on the back of Quirrell’s head, Snape whispered with great sadness:

“I hope so, Potter… I truly do.”

* * *

“Yes, my friends,” Professor Dumbledore announced the following evening at dinner, “I’m saddened to be the bearer of bad news, but it is my grim duty to announce you the passing of our friend Professor Quirinus Quirrell… A most terrible case of Vanishing Sickness, you see… we only found his turban.”

From their table, Harry and Hermione shared a knowing smile with Ron (who still hadn’t found his rat, but, on the flip-side, had been told the amusing tale of the previous night’s adventure), while the rest of the students stared in surprise and confusion.

“On another note,” Dumbledore added, “I would like to reiterate that the Third Floor Corridor is out of bounds, and will remain so for the foreseeable future.”

Immediately after this not-so-innocent tangent, rumors started about the Cerberus having eaten Professor Quirrell.

“And now, I wish you all the best of luck on your final exams!”

This time only Hermione smiled out of the trio.  



	5. Summer Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dursleys discover something awful.

  
“So — what are you going to do about your relatives this summer, Harry?”

“Yeah”, added Ron. “Surely you can’t go back there with how they treat you… Merlin knows it’s hard enough living with the Twins, I can’t imagine what i’d be like with a trio of muggle bullies!”

“Don’t you give the Twins as good as you get, though?” asked Harry.

“I did,” said Ron mournfully, but I think… I think I’m going to stop with the pranks before the whole thing gets out of hand and one of us blows up the house.”

“Why bravo, Ron,” Hermione congratulated the red-head. “That’s very responsible of you.”

“Thanks,” answered Ron half-heartedly. “…Wait. Harry, don’t you change the subject! We were talking about _your_ holidays!”

“Ah, uhm…” said Harry, looking away. “Well… I guess I’ll just… go back… to P… Private Drive… I mean, it’s not _that_ bad……”

“Out of the question,” ruled Hermione. Not with how they treat you. Or at least, get them to behave!”

“But Hermione, I can’t!” pleaded Harry. “It’s not allowed, y’know? Ban on Underage Magic! _You_ ’re the one who told me about that!”

“Silly Harry,” chuckled Hermione. “That’s just _wanded_ magic, if you catch my drift… Look, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll get my parents to pick you up and we’ll go to a pet store…”

* * *

 

“So, Uncle Vernon, I know you don’t want to do the cooking yourself, but I’m just not feeling like it this morning… I have owls to send, you know how it is…”

“WH-WHATEVER YOU SAY, BOY! JUST KEEP THAT -- THAT _VIPER_ AWAY FROM ME!!!”

“Tsk tsk. He’s a _krait_ , thank you very, much. But fine, I’ll call him off for now. { _Thank you, Kaiser, you can go back inside your burrow now. I’ll bring you some chicken meat later._ }


	6. Chapter V: A New Riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein friends argue, a diary is found, and an experiment is made.

Hermione's summer was spent in as muggle a way as she could manage. Marcus Moonshine's _Treaty on the Muggle-Born_ indicated that a lot of muggle-born witches and wizards gradually adopted a wizarding lifestyle and culture, to the point that they ended up feeling inadequate in non-magical company. Hermione certainly wanted no such thing to happen to her, and so she focused on muggle subjects for her summer studies, and forced herself to avoid thinking too much about Hogwarts.

The exception, of course, had been the letters to and from her friends. Harry's relatives, he wrote in a letter delivered through the muggle post, had been appropriately put under control by her little idea. Meanwhile, Ron informed her that things were as well as they could be in the Weasley household. The Twins had only pulled the expected single, final prank on him (to have the last laugh in their little prank-war), their sister Ginny was extremely excited about going to Hogwarts, and Mr Arthur Weasley himself was exuberant at finally passing his Muggle Protection Act. The only sour note was the ongoing case of the disappearing Scabbers. Ron hoped against hope that they'd find him comfy and cozy at Hogwarts come September, but everyone was beginning to come to terms with the probable fact of the old rodent's demise.

Hermione also took advantage of the holidays to rekindle friendships with the local snakes. She found with some dismay that an old adder living in the Grangers' garden hadn't made it through the winter. Dutifully, she held a small, private funeral for the old boy (she'd have invited the other neighborhood snakes, but she knew too well they'd probably try to eat their former companion's remains, and she had a feeling he wouldn't have wanted it this way). On a happier note, a younger female grass-snake she got along rather well with had laid a host of awfully cute eggs in the Grangers' neighbours' compost heap in mid-July, and Hermione was a bit sad that she wouldn't be there to see the newborns hatch.

For indeed, eventually, with September fast approaching, she turned her thoughts back to magical study, arranging for her, her parents and the Weasleys to all go shopping in Diagon Alley together. Entering through the muggle side of the Leaky Cauldron along with Daniel and Sally, she found Harry and the Weasleys already out in the open on the other side, Harry and Ron arguing quite fiercely. Something about each boy having apparently ignored the other's owls all summer.

"Boys! Boys!" she interrupted.

"Oh, hi Hermione!" chorused the two friends.

"Yes, hello, and before you ask, I'm quite alright thank you, and what exactly is the matter with you two?"

"Well," Harry began, "I haven't gotten any of Ron's supposed many letters-"

"I think you ought to say _supposedly numerous_ ," interrupted the girl.

"Hermione!" gently scolded Dr Daniel Granger, putting his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "You shouldn't correct other people on small mistakes during conversations. It's not at all polite."

"Oh, hm, sorry dad," said Hermione.

Having noticed their presence, Mr Weasley practically jumped to the elder Gangers' side and began to grill them with questions about muggle customs. This left the children free to chat on their way between shops.

"Now, let's keep things straight. Ron, you say you wrote Harry. Through Owl Post, yes?"

"Uhuh. Good letters, they were, too. I mean, maybe my spelling wasn't the best, but you know. And yeah, Mum had the family owl deliver them… he's getting a bit old, Errol, but he never failed to deliver a letter, and he came back not looking any worse than usual from those deliveries…"

"Yes, yes, I don't need that sort of detail. And Harry, you wrote Ron as well? Through Owl Post too?"

"Well, yes… I couldn't write Ron the muggle way, because, well, even if I knew the Weasley's address I'm not sure it's even on the muggles' books."

"True. That is actually a pretty interesting idea… I'll have to research it. Do wizards have legal identity on the muggle side…?"

"Hermione. Focus." corrected Harry.

"Oh, thank you. I'm sorry… Old habits die hard and all that. So, Harry, have you no idea if someone could have interrupted your mail?"

"Bloody hell, I almost forgot…" said Harry, hitting his forehead.

"Yes?" Hermione and Ron both inquired.

"There was this weird little blighter… he looked a bit like Peeves, if Peeves had a real body, and you replaced all of his bad jokes with a weird fixation on thanking everyone he spoke to. So yeah, not _really_ Peeves, but… ah, you just had to be there. Point is, he was called Dobby, and he just popped into my bedroom in the middle of the night and began blabbering about an evil plot at Hogwarts."

"Something to do with the Riddling Turban?" asked Hermione, biting her lip. She would be lying if she said she hadn't occasionally worried about Voldemort somehow snapping out of his Petrification, ever since she'd learned who Tom Riddle really was.

"No, it was one of the first things I asked… Apparently it was an 'ancient evil' sleeping 'beneath the Castle'. So of course I asked if he meant the Basilisk, and he began hitting himself on the head with a hammer — I'm still not sure where he got the hammer, to be honest — in a way that seemed to mean 'yes'. I think. So I told him I'm friends with her, and she's not really evil, but he wouldn't believe me until I showed him how I could talk to the krait. After that, he looked at me and I still can't tell if it was fear or awe. Then he gushed some more and he popped away."

"That all sounds like a House-Elf to me," supplied Ron. "Mum sometimes laments that we can't afford one."

"Afford?" asked Hermione, overcome with a peculiar sense of dread. She was, however, ignored as Harry continued:

"Elf? Yes, I guess he might have mentioned something like that… The point is, I wouldn't put it past that weirdo to have been intercepting my mail for whatever reason. Maybe he thought I'd forget Hogwarts was a thing if I didn't get letters from you guys, or something like that. He didn't seem quite right in the head. Nice, but not right in the head."

"Yes, that's probably it," concluded Hermione, still filing away the matter of House-Elves for further research.

As they passed the Potions Shop, they accidentally bumped into Professor Snape, who delivered his first hissing scowl for the year, seemed about to mouth 'Ten points from Gryffindor' before he remembered where he was, and then left briskly.

Harry gulped theatrically.

"Looks like we're in for another _long_ year of Potions," he lamented.

"Harry, have you tried straightening things out with him?" asked Hermione. "About your father and everything, like we'd guessed."

"Well, yeah, actually." Harry defended himself. "You were in the Library at the time, but I happened to meet him in the corridors and I tried getting his attention, telling him I'm not that different from my father… at least based on what Professor McGonagall and Hagrid had to say. That didn't seem to make him any happier, though. He docked me twenty points for that!"

"Huh. I was… wrong, then… I suppose." answered Hermione.

It seemed mouthing those words was still painful for her, but it was a definite improvement, in her two friends'. A year earlier, she wouldn't have dreamed to admit she had been wrong. Not publicly like this. Still, she changed the subject quickly:

"Oh, this reminds me. Ron, { _have you been practicing Snake-Speak?_ }"

{I have done, that!} answered Ron proudly. { _Fed and Gorge, thinked it was weird, …but Ginny, she thinked it has a very awesome, though!_ }

{ _Well done!_ } said Hermione, and she pecked him on the cheek, to his absolute surprise (not that he minded). { _You've made a lot of progress. Do brush up your preterit, though._ }

"Oh, uhm, thanks… I will, Hermione." stammered the flustered redhead.

Harry, pretending to be offended, began ask why he didn't get a kiss for dealing with the crazy elf-thing so swiftly, but the joke was cut short when the little group actually arrived at _Flourish & Blotts_ — or rather, in _front_ of _Flourish & Blotts_; the problem was precisely that a crowd prevented entry into the bookshop where their textbooks for this year (which were rather numerous, especially the Defence books, all written by some expert called Gilderoy Lockhart) were to be found.

As it turned out, the crowd was, as a matter of fact, gathered here to witness a public appearance by Lockhart himself, whom Molly Weasley (tearing herself away from the conversation between her husband and the Grangers) explained was an unparalleled wizarding adventurer who had fought all sorts of monsters all over the world and written a very exciting book series about it. Lockhart was also very handsome and very charming… or at least, from a distance. The more you looked at him, the more vapid and full of himself he seemed, and this culminated in him publicly embarrassing poor Harry who obviously wanted nothing to do with him. All in all, Hermione didn't know what to think when Lockhart announced himself as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor — if he really was that good, he would certainly be a step up from Quirrell, but was a bottomless bag of concentrated ego like Lockhart's really less obnoxious than a stuttering moron, if you had to endure their lectures for an entire year? That remained to be seen.

The day didn't get any better when the Malfoys (junior and senior) bumbled onto the scene and had a row with the Weasleys. Fortunately, Harry revealed the presence of the Krait inside his backpack, scaring Draco away from him (the would-be bully didn't seem like he could take a hint even after a whole year of being bullied). Unable to get at Harry, the blond boy fell back to weak, repetitive insults against Hermione's parentage and big teeth.

"Well," she replied calmly to that last taunt, "I'll have to know it's a big help for pronouncing Parseltongue."

With the look of someone who'd seen a Dementor, Draco staggered away, dragging his father behind him with a promise that he had something very important to tell them.

In the end, all required schoolbooks were purchased, and the Grangers were invited to spend the evening with the Weasleys. The trip was achieved through the Floo Network. Hermione had read about it (of course), but her excitement died down after she determined travelling by Floo was no less uncomfortable than Apparation.

At dinner, Hermione decided to sit next to the youngest girl, Ginny, trying to figure out why the redhead hadn't stopped glaring at her throughout the day. Being Hermione, she achieved this by asking Ginny why she'd been glaring at her throughout the day.

"Wh-no-but…" stammered Ginny, losing her countenance.

Fred, sitting opposite Hermione, explained between mouthfuls of Molly Weasley's excellent food:

"Well… not to be indiscrete or anything, dear Miss Granger, but it would appear that our honored sister Ginevra has a bit of a sweet spot for a certain Boy Who Lived… not to name names or anything."

"Then why isn't she looking at _him_?" asked the Parselmouth sheepishly.

"Oh, I don't know…" answered George mischievously. "Could it be a little thing called jealousy? You _are_ the girl Harry chatted with every day for a whole year."

"Now you two!" said Ginny, regaining all of her fiery determination. "I'm not above turning these hexes you taught me back against you if you say ONE. MORE. WORD."

"Eh? What's that, Ginny dear? Hexes?" Mrs Weasley barely managed to ask before she was swept back into the grown-ups' heated conversation (Mr Ganger was doing his best to explain the theory of radioactivity to an enraptured Arthur).

"That's ridiculous!" said Hermione, ignoring Molly's remark like everybody else. "I don't like Harry in _that_ way, and I'm… pretty sure he doesn't either. We're just friends who do friend things together with Ron. You know. Study together, play chess, fight Tom Riddle the Hissing Turban… oh, I assume Ron told you all about that?"

"Oh yeah!" said Ginny, her anger and jealously suppressed by friendly envy of Hermione's adventures. "Even the you-know-who from the Chamber of you-know-whats… and don't worry, I know I mustn't tell dad. I'm not crazy."

"Have you tried learning a bit of Parseltongue?" whispered Hermione.

"Nah." answered the other girl. "Ron's a good brother but he isn't the best teacher, and he tells me he's not that good at it yet anyway. I wouldn't be against it if you offered, though. …Say, do you think I'll get to adventure with you three this year?"

"Maybe, maybe not." said Hermione thoughtfully. "It probably wouldn't be against the Turban this time, though, unless somebody breaks him out of the Corridor."

"Oh! That reminds me!" Ginny said. "I've got something I need to show you! Mom, can I go up really quick? There's something in my room I want to show Hermione!"

"Wha-uh, yes, run along, dear, glad you're making friends - _an entire city_ , you say? Heavens!" said Molly, still caught up in the conversation with the Grangers.

When Ginny came down (and it was quick; a real little human lightning bolt, that girl), she was cradling a black leather-bound diary. She cracked it open and revealed the name on the front page, in terrifyingly neat handwriting.

_T. M. Riddle_

* * *

 

"Ron. Harry," she called conspiringly across the table, breaking off the two's Quidditch chit-chat. "Riddle meeting after dinner. With Ginny. Important."

The two bewildered boys gave a sharp nod and shared a look of incomprehension before getting back into their previous conversation.

Once the four children had finished eating Molly's delicious dessert, they darted off to Ginny's room (which she had paid the Twins in candy to rather solidly enchant against eavesdropping).

"So… Riddle meeting?…" asked Ron dubiously. "What, the bugger's broken out?"

"I don't _think_ so," answered Hermione. "But look what Ginny found… well, actually, where _did_ you find it?…"

Ginny showed the diary, with its dreaded signature, to the two boys, and explained:

"Well, it was in my cauldron along with all my schoolbooks when we came back from the Alley. At first I thought Mum had bought it, but in retrospect, I think Mr Malfoy may have slipped it in for some reason."

"Uh? Why?" asked Harry and Hermione together.

"Because everybody knows Malfoy worked for You-Know-Who back in the day!" answered Ron and Ginny as if it were self-evident.

"Uh?" asked Hermione. "That's not in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ , or in _The History of the Dark Lord's War_ , or in-"

"Well, of course it's not," Ginny answered with a dry smile. "Malfoy paid off everyone who matters to quietly forget all about it. Officially, the only times he was seen obeying He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's order, he was under some sort of mind-control curse called the Imperius. Everybody knows that's ridiculous, though."

"Yeah," added Ron. "If there's anyone out of Azkaban right now who wouldn't mind slaughtering muggles all day, it's Lucius Malfoy."

"Slaughtering muggles…?" repeated Harry, not understanding what Ron was getting at.

"Honestly, Harry," scolded Hermione, "haven't you read anything about Voldemort? It's in all the books. No one knows if he bought into it himself, but he told his followers they'd be free to torture all muggles and muggle-born wizards if he won the war. He exploited pure-blood wizards' racism and bigotry and recruited anywhere from the slums of Knockturn Alley to rich businessmen like Lucius Malfoy…"

"Hey, we Weasleys are pureblood too!" complained Ron and Ginny.

"But you're not racist, are you?" countered Harry.

"Wha-no!"

"Everyone! Focus!" said Hermione to defuse the rising argument. "It doesn't really matter why Malfoy gave us that notebook. The point is, what does it do? Surely it's not just an ordinary book, what would be the point? Maybe it's cursed!"

"Bloody hell, you're right!" said Ginny with a panicked look. "Maybe it kills anyone who writes in it or something — and to think I'd have tried writing in it tonight if you hadn't reminded me — thank you!"

"Hm, don't mention it." said Hermione absent-mindedly. "But then how are we going to test that theory?"

"I know just the thing!" said Ginny with a grin. She fished out a raggedy quill from inside one of her drawers. "Dad's old Dicta-Quill. It writes anything you dictate. He gave it to me after he bought a new one. It's a bit old, so it occasionally makes spelling mistakes or things like that, but it'll be fine for a little test."

"Excellent," congratulated Hermione. "Alright. Everyone prepare for Operation Cursed Diary. Ginny, open the book, yes, that's right. Now put it down on the bed… put the Dicta-Quill on it, ready to write something. Right. Now let's all take a few steps back… Farther than that, Ron, do you _want_ to get your brains cursed into potato mash?… Yes, good. Fine. Now nobody speak but me, please. Let's try to get a coherent message across. Ginny, how do you activate it?"

"You say 'Quill, Take This Down'. Got that?" said Ginny.

As it turned out, Hermione didn't need to have 'got that', because the Dicta-Quill heard her and instantly rose at attention. Hermione nodded and the three other children did so as well.

"Testing, testing." she said as clearly as possible.

Across the room, the enchanted quill began scribbling:

**_Test is, testing._ **

No explosion engulfed the magical object, but after a few seconds the ink was soaked into the paper, leaving the page just as white as before.

After making sure nothing else was happening, Hermione said:

"Is this going to disappear as well?"

The quill dutifully took it down, albeit with a blot in the middle.

**_Is this going •, to disappear as well?_ **

It did.

But this time, the ink bled back out after a moment, forming new words in big enough handwriting for Ginny's sharp eyesight to decipher:

 ** _Yes it is_** , said the new words. **_That is how this Diary works, you see. Hello. My name is Tom Riddle. Who are you?_**

"My name is… Hermia Pockle," answered Hermione, opting for an alias. No reason to give their probable-enemy her real name. "Glad to meet you."

Once the Dicta-Quill had finished relaying the message, Riddle answered:

**_Likewise, Miss Pockle. May I ask how you came about my Diary?_ **

"That's not important right now," answered Hermione pressingly. "How are you responding to me, Mr Riddle? Is this diary connected to another one in your possession?"

 ** _Dear me, no,_** came Riddle's answer, **_though that would be a clever system indeed, Miss Pockle. Rather, my spirit truly inhabits the Diary. Somewhat like a Portrait, I suppose. Oh, and please, call me Tom._**

Hermione and the others shared a scared look.

"But you did use to be a flesh-and-blood person, didn't you?" asked Hermione.

 ** _I'd… rather not discuss it,_** answered the Riddle of the Diary, its handwriting slightly shakier.

Hermione couldn't quite make up her mind whether this was genuine, or clever manipulation. Not that it would help Riddle much, either way.

Before she could reply with another carefully-crafted question, however, Harry took over, in an angry tone:

"Now look here, Riddle! I don't know how you escaped the Third-Floor Corridor, but if you think you can get on the back on my head just by putting yourself into another wacky object, you have another thing coming!"

There was a long pause before the Riddle of the Diary's reply, which Hermione spent glaring angrily at Harry.

**_I'm afraid I do not see what you mean. Am I to take it you have come across another object claiming to contain my spirit? I swear that I, that is to say the self inside this Diary, has never met you before… Miss Pockle._ **

"That wasn't me who said that, Tom," said Hermione, trying to salvage the situation. "That was my… brother, Harry. He thinks you're a prank from one of our 'enemies'… a bully called Terry Riddle."

**_Ah… answered the Diary. Strange. Your handwriting and 'Harry''s seemed identical to me._ **

"That's because we're using a Dicta-Quill, Tom."

**_Oh, I see, yes. Well, Sally, as long as you keep Harry away from me, I would very much like to become your friend, a secret friend. I am, after all, a Diary, and that is therefore my purpose._ **

"I… think I'd like that, Tom", answered Hermione, not missing Riddle's shift from 'Miss Pockle' to 'Sally'. Trying to gain his trust, was he, the Slytherin of a turban?

**_Good! Just one thing, however. For… personal reasons, I'd prefer it if, in the future, you used your true handwriting rather than a Dicta-Quill._ **

"Look," said Hermione, "I'll see what I can do, but I've got to go now. Good-bye, Tom!"

 ** _I will be waiting,_** came Riddle's final message before fading away.

The four young wizards and witches looked at each other and at the Diary.

"Okay, what do we do?"


	7. Chapter VI: Return to Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroes meet a loony Ravenclaw and a loopy Lockhart, and a secret is revealed.

It being the only thing they _could_ realistically do, the children decided to stuff the bewitched diary into Harry’s trunk, wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak, and to go check on the petrified Quirrell-Riddle hybrid in the Third Floor Corridor as soon as possible. If the petrified would-be Janus was missing, they’d know the Diary had been lying, and they’d keep an even closer watch on it. If it was still there, they’d just put the diary next to it — if this corridor could hold one of Voldemort, it could certainly hold two.

For indeed, as a matter of fact, the time to return to Hogwarts came a few days later. Arthur Weasley flew all of his children, plus Harry and Hermione, to King’s Cross Station, aboard a very interesting artifact he had enchanted himself. It was a very non-standard sort of artifact, being that it was, in fact, a Ford Anglia, but it was fascinating to Hermione nonetheless — not least of which because it seemed to have a mind of its own, just like the Sorting Hat and ‘Goldie’ the Griffin.

The ride aboard the Hogwarts Express wasn’t as peaceful as the children had hoped. Hermione realized too late that the secret of her being a Parselmouth, which he had so carelessly revealed to Draco earlier, had already spread like wildfire through the student body (a few owls went a long way). She thus spent the entire ride being harassed by stupid kids who wanted to hear her hiss. It was fun at first but quickly got boring, and the rumor that she was Voldemort’s illegitimate daughter was just _rude_. There were only two visitors to otherwise stand out of the mass. The first was the newly-christened ‘Professor’ Lockhart, who burst into their compartment, cutting through the crowd with useless motions of his wand:

“DEAR FANS!” he bellowed. “You have been deceived! I, the great Gilderoy Lockhart, for whom this crowd has no doubt gathered, am not actually in this compartment.”

Someone in the back (a small kid with a camera) pointed out that he was, actually.

“Well, I am _now_. How very perspicacious of you,” retorted Lockhart with a forced smile that most of the children still found charming. “However, I have only come here to reroute my sprawling fanbase back whence I came, that is to say my actual, luxuriously-furnished compartment towards the front.”

Before anyone could even begin to explain his mistake to the handsome hare-brain of a wizard, Kaiser peeked out of Harry’s bag.

“Argh!” enunciated Lockhart with mostly-fake emotion, striking a pose with his wand. “A fell beast has attacked the defenseless Boy Who Lived! The horror!”

Although a few students had recoiled upon seeing the krait, most were just confused. Lockhart went on:

“Ah, but Fate smiles upon the Conqueror of the Dark Lord, for another hero, dare I say an even greater one, happened to be passing by… Gilderoy Lockhart! ME!”

He flashed a smile at the audience. Most were still completely aghast, but a few of the younger, more impressionable students were starting to be taken in. Hermione huffed.

“As I am the Defence Professor, it is my solemn _duty_ to… hahah! Defend! Watch and learn, children, if you ever hope to match my greatness!”

With unbelievably overdramatic, swooping motions of his intricately-adorned wand, on which Hermione only now noticed he had applied _golden varnish_ , Lockhart tried some sort of curse on Kaiser.

“ _Viperus Evanesco!_ ” he declaimed in what Hermione knew was quite dreadful Latin.

Kaiser absolutely failed to vanish as Lockhart probably meant him to. However, the attention was starting to get to him, and he retreated back inside Harry’s bag in annoyance.

After a moment of incertitude, Lockhart exclaimed:

“Hah-hah! Just as I, the Great Gilderoy Lockhart, planned! Observe: it is the virtue of the victor to be merciful, my young friends. I could have blasted that slithering serpent into ash with a snap, but instead I chose a controlling spell for a peaceful outcome. Now the Boy Who Lived his saved, the snake is alive, and you all are one spell _and_ one moral lesson richer. A happy ending worthy of… Gilderoy Lockhart! Hah-hah!”

Completely forgetting why he’d come here in the first place, the selfish blabbermouth of a wizard-adventurer strode out of the room with these ‘uplifting parting words’:

“Remember, children — you may see me all year at the hours your time-tables will indicate, and, to boot, for a fair price, read all about my numerous adventures in my book series, _The Adventures of Gilderoy Lockhart_ , by Gilderoy Lockhart. Seven novels, one play, an autobiography, three textbooks, and counting! Cheers!”

While most of the children and teenagers present tried to shake off the weird confusion that had settled in their mind from Lockhart’s little stint, a sizable enough portion had turned over to his side and left the compartment, giving everyone else a little bit of elbow room.

This also allowed a strange first-year girl to make her way to the very edge of the crowd in the compartment — the second odd character this ride would yield. Things began innocently enough.

“Hi! I’m Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter. So, I hear you are Parselmouths?”

“Yes.” groaned the annoyed Harry, who never appreciated being put into the limelight. “I’m a Parselmouth, Hermione’s a Parselmouth, Ron’s a Parselmouth, sort of, hell, he’s a Parselmouth!…” (he was pointing at Kaiser) “EVERYBODY’S A PARSELMOUTH, THE RUMORS ARE TRUE. _NOW GO AWAY._ ”

“Oh, but I always knew the rumors were true,” said Luna. “They always are. I mean, I don’t have to go ask Minister Fudge to know he’s part of the Rotfang Conspiracy. It’s common knowledge.”

“Oh?” said Hermione, making a mental note to research this Rotfang Conspiracy. “Then why did you need to come and talk to us?”

“Mostly because I want to learn Parseltongue too.” answered the dreamy girl.

That wasn’t exactly _new_ (at least two others, Ravenclaws, naturally, had asked the same thing), but it was certainly interesting enough.

“And why is that?” asked Ginny (who was feeling left out as the only person in the conversation who neither was a Parselmouth or had any intention to learn).

“I have a hunch Slither-Necked Snorkacks can understand it too,” answered the girl as if that explained everything.

“Oh, really? What’s a Slither-Necked Snorkack, then?” asked Hermione.

“Well, no one’s really sure, you see,” Luna explained, “because no one’s ever seen one. However, there are records of sightings of Crumple-Horned Snorkack with an unusually slithery neck, producing a faint hissing sort of noise. It is my belief, as well as that of my father, that these constitute a separate breed of Snorkack, whom we theorize may be native to Scotland.”

“Uh… what’s a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?” asked Hermione.

“That’s also a bit of a mystery,” said Luna. “What we know is that it’s a Snorkack, it lives in Sweden, and it doesn’t have a horned — well, it does, but you can’t see it, because it’s all _crumpled_.”

“ _What’s a Snorkack?_ ” asked Hermione. The girl was simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to her in months: she raised a hundred questions and answered them all with more questions that she answered, too, _ad infinitum_.

“Well, it’s an animal, obviously. Sort of like a cross of a nargle and a chess piece, with bits and pieces of a bugbear thrown in. Also, it glows purple in the moonlight.”

“What’s a nargle?”

“Glad you asked, Hermione Granger. Nargles are the mistletoe-dwelling relatives of the Australian Slashkilters…”

Another reason Luna Lovegood was the best thing that had happened to Hermione so far that day was that after a few minutes of listening in on their conversation, and with no sign of it stopping anytime soon, the other paparazzi withdrew from the compartment, clutching their foreheads. Harry, Ron and Ginny had a somewhat similar reaction, but Hermione wouldn’t let them leave. (Kaiser was just taking a nap inside Harry’s bag. It’s not like he understood human speech, anyway.)

* * *

 

For Ginny and Luna’s sakes, the three friends attended the Sorting Feast. Luna, as per the laws of the alphabet, was the first to go. Wearing her usual dreamy smile, she began mind-chatting with the also-smiling Hat, and Hermione could just see they were going to be here for a long time if (as she should have foreseen) Luna was indeed to type to encourage the Hat. After twelve agonizing minutes, Professor McGonagall walked closer to the Sorting Stool, looking worried.

“Hat, is everything alright?” she asked.

“What? Yes, yes; whatever are you doing here, Minerva?” answered the Hat with its real-life voice. (Luna didn’t acknowledge McGonagall’s presence and just kept smiling.)

“You should know, Hat, after so many years, that as the Deputy Headmistress it is my duty and privilege to attend, and even host, the Sorting Ceremony.”

“Sorting?…” repeated the Hat sheepishly. “Oh! Yes! The Sorting! Forgive me, I had quite forgotten, young Miss Lovegood makes such good conversation!… Now where am I going to put you, then, Luna?”

McGonagall staggered out of sight.

It took four more minutes, and another reminder to the Hat of what it was supposed to do, for Luna to be Sorted away into “RAVENCLAW, and do drop in at any time, we’ll have crumpets”.

Several students later, Ginny’s Sorting into ‘GRYFFINDOR’ went orders of magnitude more smoothly, although it wasn’t wholly normal either, as Ginny came back with a message from the Hat for Hermione — general greetings and wishes of good luck, but it was rare enough as it was.

Following the Sorting, Professor Dumbledore had something or two to say.

“Ahem! Students, teachers, ghosts, portraits, gargoyles, ants, and whoever else may be listening — I have a few start-of-term notices to give all of you. The first is that Mr Filch has once again asked me to remind you that his list of banned enchanted items, which can be found pinned on the door to his office, is as binding as the rest of the school rules. I hope we are all clear.”

Ron looked sheepish while Fred and George seemed absolutely outraged.

“First years should note that the Forbidden Forest is forbidden to all pupils. That is the main reason it is called Forbidden. Were it not forbidden, I daresay that it would be called the Permitted Forest.”

A few snickers and a few gasps followed that announcement.

“Also for the benefit of first year students, the Third Floor Corridor is out-of-bounds except to those who wish to suffer a most terrible death. I will add, to those who may think they have it all figured out, that the dangers inside are different from the ones that could be found there last year. This need not concern you, because, I reiterate as this is very important — you must never go there.”

Percy and other older students were a bit surprised at Dumbledore’s insistence compared to the previous year. Meanwhile, Dumbledore continued:

“An exception will be made on our long-standing policy not to use magic in the corridors…”

An uproar of joy cut off the wizard’s sentence. He silenced it immediately with a flick of his wand, everyone finding themselves suddenly unable to produce any sound at all. He lifted the charm almost immediately, but the silence remained.

“…an exception, as I said,” continued Dumbledore, “in case you should come across a certain animated statue in the likeness of a teenage chimpanzee. The creature is not truly menacing, but it is mischievous, and it is best to allow you to Stun it if you meet it, rather than have it get you late for class.”

“Uhm, that’s just Dumbledore being Dumbledore, right?” Hermione asked Percy.

“I’m afraid not,” said Percy. “If what I hear is correct, Professor Lockhart thought the statue — which was originally mundane in nature — was a disguised Chameleon Ghoul. Whatever spell he cast to try and subdue it seems to have backfired and given the creature sentience.”

“You can _accidentally_ give something sentience?”

“I didn’t know you could, but, well, he’s Gilderoy Lockhart. It’s only natural that even his miscalculations should have spectacular, unheard-of effects.”

That was one way of looking at it. In fact, while she and Percy were discussing him, Dumbledore had introduced the newly-appointed Defence Professor to those few who did not know him — or rather, Dumbledore had barely named the man before Lockhart himself had upstaged him and gushed on and on about himself.

* * *

 

{ _Great Basilisk, we are back from vacation!_ } hissed Hermione through the second door of the Chamber of Secrets.

{ _Hermione Granger!_ } answered the somehow deeper hiss of the Basilisk. { _I have waited for his moment for all Summer. My eyes are closed; you may come in._ }

“Right. Door, you { _open_ }.” said Hermione.  
The door obeyed, and she and Harry entered the Chamber. It was still the same as last year, if a bit less grimy, the Basilisk having apparently spent part of the summer cleaning up. Hermione thought it was rather nice, and hissed as much.

{ _Thank you, Hermione Granger_ ,} answered the great serpent. { _I trust your Summer was pleasant enough as well?_ }

{ _Oh yes, it was quite wonderful,_ } said Hermione. { _We have news, however. Possibly bad ones. Ginny Weasley, the sister of Ron,—_ }

{ _Does she Speak like her sibling?_ } asked the Basilisk eagerly.

{ _Uhm, no, but we have met someone who does. Or will, soon enough._ } Harry informed her, Luna Lovegood still fresh on his mind. The girl had caught them for an impromptu first lesson in Parseltongue in the corridor after dinner, delaying their visit down to the Chamber.

{ _That is good. I will be glad to meet her_ ,} the Basilisk said. { _…but then, you were saying? About this Ginny Weasley?_ }

{ _Oh, yes. That_ ,} Hermione was reminded. { _Well, Ginny found an enchanted Diary containing some sort of spirit. It claims to be a copy of Tom Riddle, or perhaps a piece of him, I am not quite sure. Would you happen to know anything about that?_ }

The Basilisk trembled, shaking her head violently, as if in denial. And then, with caustic tears running from her closed eyes, she hissed:

{ _I am sorry, Hermione Granger, I may not ever speak to you again. The Master ordered it so for anyone who inquired about the Diary, and as you know I cannot disobey._ } The torn Basilisk was choking. { _Farewell, friend._ }

Hermione teared up as well, instantly understanding the implications. Whatever the Diary was, it was one of Lord Voldemort’s greatest secrets, important enough that he’d forbidden his Snake to interact with any who threatened it, for fear that she would give something away. It was a wonder she hadn’t been ordered to kill them right there and then.

“Uhm… that’s bad, right? Did I get that right?” asked Ron, who had been trying to follow the conversation but always did think Hermione spoke a bit too fast for him.

Fortunately, before the green giant could retire to reminisce alone about her lost friend, Harry spoke up, sounding rather happy with himself.

{ _Erm, Great Basilisk?_ } he said. { _I am sorry, I have absolutely no idea what you and Hermione were talking about just now. I won’t ask, either_.}

Hermione looked at Harry with grateful, shiny eyes, and she heard the gigantic serpent slither back into view, stopping herself partway through muttering the phrase Surely that won’t work, which she had sworn never to say again in relation to the young wizards’ ideas after last time.

{ _I cannot thank you enough, young wizard, thrice-blessed your quick wits. Now, speaking purely to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, of course_ ,} said the Basilisk, her hisses dripping with humor, { _and not to any muggle-born girl who may happen to be there; and bearing in mind that all of this is a tale with no relationship whatsoever to any notepad belonging to any Master of any sort…_ }

Hermione took out a piece of parchment and began taking notes. Ron tried to read them to help with his oral comprehension, but found with dismay they were a bunch of tiny squiggly scribbles. This puzzled the boy for a moment (Hermione’s usual script being very regular and clean) until he realized this was what written Parseltongue looked like.

{ _…there was a b-_ ,} told the Basilisk — but she found herself stumped at the B. { _There was a… youngling, who feared his end very much. When he had passed fifteen springs, he read from a book entitled --_ } (again she was stuck) { _\--he read from a book most foul, a way ancient wizards had devised to ch- to… to work around the Final End. The youngling had a servant, a still-standing Speaker of a serpentine sort, whom he forced to do his bidding. Through the murder of M-- of a girl in a bathroom, the servant… the servant provided the sacrifice that the youngling craved._ }

It didn’t take a genius to puzzle that the ‘servant’ was the Basilisk herself, forced to carry out young Voldemort’s evil bidding. And a girl in the bathroom… Hermione would have bet that was Moaning Myrtle.

The Basilisk continued her tale:

{ _For with arcane words and the harm of the murder, the child spl-- divided his s-- cut apart his ess-- cut apart the core of his mind, you see. And one half was put in a D-- in a certain notepad. For the book had said that as long as the half remained inside the object, even through the End, the youngling’s… main self… would be anchored to the world of the living._ }

…  
…  
…

“Uh.” said Harry. “Well. Guess that explains that.”

{ _Don’t worry_ ,} said Hermione, looking intently at the Basilisk, { _and of course I am not speaking to this random Basilisk here, but to anyone else who might be listening, we have the Diary locked away safe and sound. He won’t bother you._ }

* * *

 

After Professor McGonagall handed them their time-tables, the children realized it wouldn’t be long before they had to face Gilderoy Lockhart within the enclosed space of a classroom. Ron, probably for the sake of argument, tried to reassure Hermione, who was throwing a bit of a tantrum about the constantly-dropping quality of DADA teachings:

“Look, maybe the git won’t be _that_ bad.”

* * *

Lockhart really _was_ just that bad. Worse, actually.

* * *

“No, Miss Granger, don’t worry,” said Professor Sprout. “Mandrakes are perfectly non-sentient. Their human-like behavior is just an illusion, a way to scare predators away.”

“Oh. Thank Heavens.”

(Since snake fangs were used as ingredients in several potions, Hermione thought wizards didn’t have the best track record of paying sapient species all due respect. She thus thought her worries had been perfectly grounded in reality. Her classmates didn’t seem to think the same way, though, if the way the Slytherins were snickering at her was any indication.)

* * *

Feeling a bit bad for how they’d neglected him the previous school-year, what with the constant Riddle meetings they had occupied their evenings with, Harry pressured the others into visiting Hagrid over the week-end. The gentle giant was overjoyed, although the three were in for a surprise — the notoriously hairy Keeper of the Keys’ head was bald as a baby’s, down to his bushy eyebrows, although stubble was starting to reappear where his bear should have been. They didn’t know whether it’d upset their big friend to mention it and danced around the issue until Harry worked up the courage to ask about it. Hagrid looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, mumbled about a fireplace accident, and changed the topic.

Very curious.

But then, what could someone like Hagrid _possibly_ be hiding that they should be concerned about?


End file.
